Distanced
by wild-vixen
Summary: Kirill lives to work another day for Gretkov and is sent to Paris to retrieve his threatened and estranged daughter, Katya. Kirill knows getting her to Moscow won't be easy, but fighting his own attraction might just become the hardest part of all.
1. Prologue

Prologue

There was blood in his mouth, its taste strong, and there were trickles running down his face – more of the same, Kirill supposed foggily. He blinked, eyelashes fluttering weakly, until the world started to come into focus around him.

There was someone peering at him through the empty pane of the car's window, a man; it was _him_, Bourne, the target who had been bad luck for Kirill right from the start. His expression now was hard to name – and was that pity in his eyes? Kirill didn't like that. He didn't want anyone's pity.

Bourne turned and left and Kirill wanted to yell at him to return, to finish the job, but he couldn't muster the strength; his body was complaining, every nerve crying out with pain, and even now there was blood running into his eyes and clouding his vision.

With a faint groan he shifted his head, feeling the hard steering wheel beneath his forehead graze his skin. It was coming back to him now after a brief moment of darkness – shooting Bourne, the car chase, the crash. And what a crash – it had felt like his entire world had blown up, metal twisting and crumpling, pain exploding at myriad points throughout his body, the roaring darkness that had claimed his mind…

'Are you all right?' a voice whispered in his ear, a woman.

What a stupid question, Kirill thought, screwing up his eyes against the pain. It felt like his head had just been split in half, like his body had been put through a blender – of course he wasn't all right.

But he hadn't survived for so long as an assassin without his good instincts, and every one of those was telling him to keep breathing and get the hell out of there before any more people gathered around.

Injured as he was, it was these thoughts that were occupying the Russian man's mind. It wasn't until he tried to sit up that he realised how badly his body was damaged, when the world spun around him and he found himself unable even to raise his head.

A cool hand touched the back of his neck and crept around to find his pulse – he tensed instinctively, his mind screaming at him to stop that hand before it took hold of his throat, but he was too weak. He succumbed with a sigh, wondering for the first time if it might not just be easier to surrender to the darkness pulling at the edge of his mind.

'He's alive!' that voice from before said, louder this time. 'Hold on,' it added in a whisper.

But that option was looking less and less appealing as the seconds ticked by. The darkness sapping his thoughts and strength was strong and promised peace and relief from the excruciating pain – to sink down into its clutch would be by far the easier course.

Never before had Kirill come so close to giving up.

This was not his first brush with death, certainly; in his occupation, one could go only so long before confronting the end of existence. But this time was different – he, Kirill, had been bested. He had failed. Bourne had beaten him.

Sirens then, loud and insistent, intruded on his slide into comfortable death. Again his eyelids strained to open and a face filled them, a man whose eyes were surveying Kirill critically. Kirill wanted to sit up, to snarl at the man to mind his own business, but he had no strength left – not even to lift the gun that he could just barely feel in his left hand, warm and slippery from the blood coating his palm.

Then the man was fitting a mask over his face, ignoring the mumbled curses from the Russian killer, and another was cutting through the already mangled frame of the Mercedes so that his body could be more easily lifted onto the waiting stretcher.

Kirill groaned as his body was moved and manipulated by foreign hands, closing his eyes as the pain intensified and his blood pounded sluggishly in his ears. Then, thankfully, darkness claimed him again – permanently, he hoped, as a fresh wave of pain spread out from his shattered arm.

To die now would be so much easier than living.

: - : - :

Kirill didn't get his wish.

He was admitted to hospital with critical head trauma, a suspected fractured spine and a badly broken arm, covered with blood and a number of deep gashes. The gun had been taken from his blood-slicked hand in the ambulance and the card identifying him as an FSB agent had won him some curious glances from the staff involved along with the pitying ones, for none expected him to live.

However, even when unconscious he clung tenaciously to life, and the more religiously inclined amongst the staff regarded him as blessed for his spine was still intact, his nervous system undamaged. Nor did his head wounds prove fatal – he would forever bear a scar, a white ridge parting the cropped black hair, but there would be no lasting damage from what had seemed an impossible injury.

He was regarded with curiosity too, for the word was that he had been injured trying to take down a dangerous American foreigner, a man who had gone on a rampage through the city with a gun, stealing cars as he went. The younger female nurses sometimes thought up excuses to linger by his bedside and admire his chiselled profile, and discuss in low murmurs how brave he had been.

Indeed, when Kirill awoke after an unconscious period lasting quite a few weeks, it was to find that he had been in the paper, if not explicitly by name – and he still remained an FSB agent, which was useful. He liked driving that black car with the blue light; people got out of his way. And life in general was much more secure, considering that he was out of work now that the Russian oil tycoon Gretkov was in jail and looked set to stay there for a few years at least.

A thought brought a frown to the killer's face then, and he shifted uncomfortably on the starchy sheets, blinking up at the off-white ceiling.

Bourne.

He had, since finding out that his target was still alive, realised that he had been careless in Goa. He had been sure that he had shot the driver, sending the car into the river – but maybe the shock of the bullet had driven Bourne to send the car off the edge. Perhaps he had done it deliberately to put Kirill off the scent. He could even have switched places with the woman he had picked up, the woman whose face Kirill couldn't recall, the woman whose body had been found in the river.

But no matter what Bourne's method had been, the result was the same – a target still walking and a an irritating name to haunt the Russian assassin. All of this had been publicity Kirill could do without – but he had weathered worse, and would no doubt do so again.

Kirill spared little time basking in relief at the news that his body was not so badly damaged as it had at first seemed. It was not in his nature to be thankful, nor to waste time and effort on considering what might have been, and so he took it as certain that his body would heal and started laying plans for his future.

All in all, it was many weeks before he left the hospital, despite his chafing at the doctors' demands. They had wanted him to stay an extra two weeks, just to be certain that his head injury wouldn't trouble him, but Kirill was growing impatient. He was bored and hated the physical confinement, bright lights, the lack of freedom.

It was, Kirill decided as he stepped out of the hospital doors and into the chill air of a Tuesday morning, time to take a break from Moscow. He had another two month's leave from the FSB to use, and so first to Switzerland, to visit his bank vault. And then… well, something would, no doubt, present itself.

The tall Russian in the dark leather coat moved off down the street in a sure gait, betraying no sign of the recently mended arm or shocking head trauma, a slight smile on his handsome face.

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**AN: Thanks for reading! :)**


	2. I

Chapter One

It was another cold night in Paris and I wrapped my coat more firmly around myself as I hurried down the street, heading for the metro station. I couldn't wait to get onto the heated trains, even though it meant facing extreme cold again when I got out at the other end. The thin, high heels of my boots clattered on the steps as I hurried down below ground, glad to be out of the wind.

I went through the usual process of buying a ticket, validating it and making sure I had the right train on the right platform. It was late and I was tired after a dinner with some friends from work, and I couldn't wait to get home and go to bed.

It had been a good night, though – it had been nice to relax after a day in the office, dealing with the usual things that come my way in the insurance business – suspected fraudulent claims and so on. Surprisingly interesting at times, damn boring at others.

I took a seat next to the window, watching my reflection on the glass as the tunnel of the metro flashed by outside. My brown-blonde hair, a colour that could unflatteringly be described as mousy, was still in its neat braid, and I could see the outline of my face in the reflection. With a yawn I rested my forehead against the cool glass, glad of the warmth inside the carriage but now feeling sleepy because of it.

This was a very fast line, stopping only once before my station of Stade de France Saint-Denis, and so I settled more comfortably into my seat and let my eyes drift shut, soothed by the comfortingly regular motion of the train.

It surprised me, then, when someone sat down close beside me, for there were many empty rows of seats around the carriage. I opened my eyes and straightened, glancing instinctively at the man who was sitting on the seat just to my right.

He continued to look straight ahead, a handsome man with short, dark hair, stubble and hollow cheeks. Tall and dressed in dark clothing, he was handsome, and I had to wonder why he had chosen to sit so close beside me, although I thought an attempted rape or mugging unlikely in a carriage with several other passengers and video surveillance. Deciding not to be rude and continue staring, I again looked out the window.

Something pressed against my side then, hard, and my head snapped around with surprise and indignation – but my angry words were halted when I saw what the object was; the gleaming barrel of a gun. My heart sped and my hands clenched into fists, but I made no other move. Before I had thought the man handsome – now I thought him chilling. His face was too cold and remote.

'What do you want?' I whispered.

'Keep quiet,' he replied in Russian, despite the fact I had spoken in French. 'And do exactly as I tell you. We'll be getting off at the next stop.'

'I don't understand you,' I whispered in French, lying.

Brown eyes flashed to meet mine, scornful. 'Nice try, Katya.'

So he knew me by my birth name, the name I had tried so hard to leave behind when I moved here, becoming instead Manon Perec who had no remaining ties to Russia. Considering the language, this was probably something to do with my father – the man I rather disliked and had not been sorry to learn was locked away, if not forever, then for as long as it took for him to bribe enough people to buy his freedom. But even from in jail my dearest father was reaching out and affecting my life. Fuck him.

We sat in silence, every trace of sleepiness gone from my mind, my body locked in cold bands of fear. What did this man want from me? Was he working for my father, or against him? Gretkov – for so I always thought of him, and named him – had promised me on the night I left that I would regret walking out on him. I had assumed he had been talking about money, but maybe he had some ulterior motive – there was little I wouldn't suspect of that man; filial affection was not something with which I'd had a lot of experience.

However, it seemed much more likely that this man was working for someone aiming to injure my father through me. If so, then I supposed this was a hostage situation, like one I'd experienced in Russia a couple of months before I'd left. I'd be taken to some remote, uninhabited building and kept there until my father paid for my release; assuming, of course, that Gretkov wasn't still so bitter over our parting that he wished me at Hades.

If that was the case then there was the disturbing notion of what might happen to me. I'd probably be shot and left in an alleyway, I thought humourlessly, deploring the squirming of my insides at such a prospect. Get over it, I told myself – much better to confront the truth here and now than hide from it.

The train started to slow for its arrival at the Gare du Nord and the man locked one large hand around my arm, just below the elbow, and forced me to rise with him. There was no sign of the gun now but I was certain that he would not be slow in reaching it if I tried to make a getaway, and even such an important station as this was sure to be empty enough at this hour for him to be able to get a clear shot at my fleeing back.

He kept to a reasonable pace, not wanting to draw attention to us by forcing me to totter too quickly on my high-heeled boots, I supposed. He kept a tight grip on me in the guise of holding my arm like a lover or husband – what a parody.

There were few people around so late at night and the massive station felt somewhat surreal as he guided me, unspeaking, to another platform. The overhead sign announced that there was still four minutes to go until the next train heading back into the city on the number 4 line. I held back a sigh, not wanting to seem melodramatic, but all I wanted to do was go home to my nice warm bed and ignore the existence of my corrupt bastard of a father.

No such luck, of course. There were only a few other people around, none of them near us, so I decided to try to pry some information from the tall, silent man at my side whose iron grip was unrelenting.

'So,' I said quietly in Russian. 'What do you want with me?'

'Be quiet.'

'If you're planning on getting money from my father in return for my life, you had better reconsider. He'd tell you to shoot me and be done with it, I think.'

Again those brown eyes rolled in scorn, their whites very clear and bright in the artificial lighting of the train platform.

'Stop guessing. I'll tell you all you need to know later, when we're safe.'

'Oh, joy,' I muttered under my breath, looking away.

He gave no sign that he had heard and we stood very still and in silence for several minutes, waiting for the train. My tension levels were steadily rising and I would have liked for the man to shift his weight, scratch his head, say something, just make a movement to give some clue as to what he was thinking. His dark gaze, continually sweeping the area without movement from the rest of his body, was disconcerting even though he wasn't looking at me. I had to wonder if he was as aware of my body beside him as I was of his.

Then the train arrived in a whirl of cold air and the squeal of metal sliding over metal, and he was leading me onto a carriage and placing me between his the wall and his scarcely softer body. I refused to look at him and instead stared at my reflection again, noting the tight set to my mouth and the tensed look around my eyes. I tried constantly to relax my features but they were set, much like how my spine was now as stiff and straight as a ruler.

I wished, as the train sped on its way and my heart continued to pound at a fearsome pace, that the ride would never end, that we would never reach our destination. I didn't want to be alone with this frightening stranger; the public nature of a train carriage at least meant that he couldn't use physical force or intimidation. It might well be a different matter once we had reached wherever we were going.

'Come on.' The man stood and tugged at my arm.

I rose unwillingly and caught sight of a sign as the train pulled into the station – St Placide, it said. Inner Paris.

It felt freezing outside after the warmth of the heated train carriage and our breath escaped from our mouths in clouds to mingle and disperse. I hoped we weren't going to be walking very far. He was moving faster now, impatiently, and his grip on my arm was tight.

We soon reached our destination, an expensive hotel, and despite my relief at the prospect of at least a warm room it felt strange to be in such a normal setting in such abnormal circumstances. We bypassed the desks and headed for the lift, and I considered stopping and making a scene in the hope that he would leave me and run before the police came. However, such an eventuality seemed unlikely – this man was much more likely to shoot me and leave, or simply drag me with him and head somewhere else.

He tightened his grip around my arm then, as if sensing the direction my thoughts had taken, and I winced as we stepped into the elevator and he pressed the button for the fourth floor. He looked down at me ironically, close – too close. It was like being chained to a lion.

'I do hope you will be comfortable here.'

I gave a short, scornful hiss through my teeth in reply and looked straight ahead at the shiny doors. It was nice to be inside, though, and warm again – although I really could have done without the tight grip around my arm, and the constant presence of his body beside mine. I liked my personal space.

We arrived then on the fourth floor and, after a short walk down the richly carpeted and well lit corridors, arrived at his room – number one hundred and seventy-two. One quick swipe of a key card later and we were in, and he finally let go of my arm as he took off his long, dark coat and I hesitantly followed suit. Beneath he was wearing similarly coloured clothing and he turned distant, careless eyes upon me.

'Don't even bother trying to escape me,' he said, locking the door and retrieving the gun from his coat pocket.

* * *

**AN: Thanks so much to everyone who has shown interest in this, and especially God Entity who reviewed. Hope you enjoyed this. :)**


	3. II

Chapter Two

I followed slowly as he went through one of the doors leading off from the entrance room, admiring the rich furnishings revealed as he turned on a standing lamp in the corner. Hesitantly I sat down in one of the armchairs surrounding the coffee table and facing the television set, thankfully unzipping my high-heeled boots and shaking them off. I tucked my legs beneath me, glad of the black stockings I was wearing beneath the skirt, and curled up in my seat to wait.

The man performed a quick check of the rooms, glancing through each doorway before sighing and lowering himself down into the chair opposite mine, turning the gun over in his hands. My eyes narrowed as they fastened on the weapon. Really, was that display necessary?

'So, will you explain now?' My voice was quiet and, thankfully, steady.

He looked at me inscrutably, only his fingers moving as they toyed with the weapon.

It looked I would have to start – but where? He could scarcely have silenced me more effectively had he used a gag. He waited, still turning the gun around in his long fingers and I tried not to look at it, but his face was hardly any more comforting.

'What's your name?' I said at last.

He considered me for a moment, expression impossible to read. The light glinted on the barrel of the gun as he turned it over, again and again.

'Kirill,' he said at last.

'Why have you done this?'

'I work for your father.'

My lip curled. 'That's hardly a recommendation.'

He shrugged with the smallest of movements, conveying without words that my feelings were irrelevant.

I narrowed my eyes at him again. 'He's in jail.'

'That changes little. I still work for him.'

'So what are you doing here with me?'

'He's concerned about you.'

'That's a first.'

He blinked slowly, dropped his eyes to the gun, and continued as if I hadn't spoken. 'Certain threats have been made and so I am to keep you safe here.'

'Did you have to kidnap me at gunpoint?' I felt braver now as a heady rush of relief surged through me, although I wasn't sure I entirely trusted his word.

He raised his eyes to mine. 'Would you have come any other way?'

Probably not, I admitted to myself, but I couldn't say the words. He saw the answer in my face, though, and smiled a little to himself.

'You are to stay with me until it's safe. Then I will escort you to Gretkov.'

'No!' I sat up straight, gripping the arms of my chair.

He raised his eyebrows. It was amazing how he could communicate without words.

'I will not leave my life here to return to Moscow and wait for him to get out of jail!'

'You won't have to wait long.'

'Nevertheless, I will not go. I will not see him.'

'You will.'

I glared at him, hating the supreme unconcern for my wishes in his voice, knowing that he was perfectly placed to keep his word. I was powerless, outmanoeuvred, as seemed to happen every time I locked horns with my father over an issue.

'So,' I shifted away from that issue, trying to regulate my voice. 'What is it you're supposedly protecting me from, then?'

'I cannot tell.'

'There haven't really been any threats made, have there?'

'Believe that if it will make you feel safer.'

I stared at him in growing annoyance. This was so typical of my father – to choose the most infuriatingly close-mouthed, arrogant man he had working for him to practically take me hostage. The relief I felt that I was in no real danger – I didn't believe Kirill's claims of outside threats for a moment – made me snappish.

'So what now? How long do I have to stay here?' _With you_, I tacked on mentally to the end of the sentence, knowing that I sounded like a petulant child but too tired to care.

'As long as is necessary.' He stood up and pointed to one of four doors. 'Bathroom is through there. I'm sure you're ready to go to bed.'

I stared up at him, frowning, disliking his dismissal, but he had turned his back to part the curtains of one of the windows, staring out down onto the street.

I stood with another annoyed hiss from between my teeth – duly ignored by Kirill – and crossed to the door he had indicated, entering the tiled room, switching on the soft lighting and flicking the lock behind me.

A toothbrush and toothpaste waited beside the porcelain basin, for me I assumed – Kirill didn't seem the type to go for pink. Tired as I was, I decided to take a nice long shower just in case my kidnapper was in a hurry to get to bed, for I was sure he wouldn't sleep until he was certain that I was doing so.

I cursed my father thoroughly as I lathered my hair with shampoo from the bottle provided by the hotel, angry that he had seen fit, once again, to meddle in my life, despite the fact that he was supposed to be safely incarcerated in jail.

We had never been a cohesive family, my mother, father and I; miserable when poor, with Gretkov struggling to earn enough money to house and feed us, and hardly any happier when he discovered the worth of corrupt deals and began to expand his business. He became arrogant then, began to expect esteem and gratitude for his success, as if the money he provided made up for all his other faults. Mother was supposed to buy herself jewellery and dresses and occupy herself with them, not his affairs with younger women. I was supposed to be a good girl and study hard, and not interest myself in what he termed "men's business".

So my mother drank herself into an early grave and I grew up cynical and scornful, not liking my father but unable to really hate him. I'd moved to France when I was twenty and trying to escape my father's expanding influence, to take up the name Manon Perec and establish my own identity where I was just another unknown young woman. And I'd been succeeding in that life too, at least until bloody Kirill showed up on the train.

Having no other clothes to change into, I put my old ones back on but didn't bother with the stockings. I left the bathroom with my damp hair in a long plait down my back to find Kirill still in the same position, watching out the window from an angle which would make it difficult for anyone to see him, had there been anyone around at such an early hour of the morning.

'I don't suppose you thought to bring a change of clothes for me?' I jibed, fatigue making me stupid.

For the first time he looked a little surprised, and he allowed the curtain to drop. After a moment he brushed past and disappeared into another room; I followed slowly to the door frame and found Kirill rifling through a bag on the floor of the bedroom.

'Here,' he said, and threw something to me.

It was a man's blue button-up shirt, far too big for me; I raised my eyebrows.

'Sleep in that tonight. I'll get you something else tomorrow.'

I nodded, not entirely pleased but seeing no other option. I moved back a step as he came out and opened the next door along, to the room beside his – another bedroom.

'This is yours,' he said, and he pulled the phone from the bedside table.

'Thanks,' I replied dourly, entering and looking around suspiciously.

It was just a bedroom, though, with a nice big double bed – the luxury was explained now that I knew my father was paying – whose pillows and soft mattress called invitingly.

'Sleep well,' Kirill said from behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder to see him regarding me with an odd look, almost a smile. Then he shut the door – and locked it.

'Arsehole!' I shouted in automatic fury.

I could have sworn I heard him laugh as he walked away.

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**AN: Thanks so much to all who have read, and especially those who reviewed. You guys make my day. :)**


	4. III

Chapter Three

I slept late the next morning, tired from the long day before, and woke to find myself in a state of mild confusion. This was not the bedroom of the flat I rented, and for a moment I stared around in confusion. Then, however, memory came flooding back and I scowled, still petulant about being locked in by Kirill. It seemed that he was as big a control freak as my father.

With a yawn I pushed back the heavy covers and swung my legs over the side, scrubbing my face with my hands. I might have believed the events of the night to have been something from a nightmare were it not for the darkened hotel room around me.

I tore off Kirill's shirt – it smelled oddly pleasant, actually, considering the character of the man who owned it – and pulled on my clothes from yesterday; black stockings, short skirt, shirt, v-neck jumper. I had been too tired and grumpy last night to do more than change and fall into bed but now I examined the room carefully, hoping to discover something useful – say, another phone to replace the one Kirill had taken last night, or a handy poker with which to hit him on the head.

There was nothing, but I wasn't surprised. Kirill had to be good if he worked for my father, who could afford – and preferred – the best. I didn't intend to follow his orders, however, and had decided that I would be getting out of Kirill's clutches as soon as possible. I still had my mobile phone in the pocket of my coat, I realised; all I needed was for Kirill to relax his guard enough for me to retrieve it, then pretend to take a shower and instead call the police.

Feeling much happier now that I had a plan, I drew back the curtains, of muted red and gold colours like the rest of the furnishings, to find myself looking into a building across a narrow laneway. There was no balcony and in any case we were high off the ground; there would be no escape that way.

I put my ear to the door and listened but could detect no sound of movement beyond. I hoped that Kirill hadn't left the hotel suite without unlocking my door.

However, the handle turned easily in my hand when I tried it, and I emerged to find the large sitting room bathed in weak, late-winter sunlight. The outer blinds had been drawn back, leaving pale, frothy white curtains to foil any prying eyes. My gaze was immediately drawn to the dark shape of Kirill, sitting on the sofa between the two chairs, concentrating on something he held between his hands. He looked up as I stepped out.

'Finally,' he said briskly, standing up. 'I have this, in case you were wondering.'

He held up my mobile phone and my heart sank – he must have retrieved it from my coat pocket. His keen eyes flicked to my hands as they curled into fists and he smiled slightly. I tried not to let my expression show how greatly annoyed and distressed I was to find that he was a step ahead of me – I had been counting on being able to use that phone to escape.

'I must go out. It is too late for breakfast, but I will order lunch for you first from room service. Here.'

He threw the menu to me and pocketed my phone. I watched with narrowed eyes, not happy at all.

'Quickly,' he commanded.

It did not take long for my croque monsieur to arrive, which Kirill received at the door after making sure that I was well out of sight. He took the platter with the glass of water and toasted ham and cheese sandwich straight into my bedroom and I followed him in, surprised.

'I will not be long,' he said and then he was gone, locking the door behind him.

Humiliated and outraged that he had so tricked me into being locked up again like a prisoner, I spent so long swearing and shouting at him (despite the fact he had left the suite immediately) that the sandwich was cold by the time I calmed down enough to eat it. I felt better afterwards with food in my stomach and, catching sight of myself in the mirror across the room, decided it was definitely time I re-braided my hair.

Long and dirty blonde in colour, it was an unwelcome reminder of my father, for my mother had had the most beautiful silvery locks until she grew to care for nothing but the drink she was consuming at a rapid pace. My eyes, too, were like Gretkov's; hazel. At least I'd inherited something of my mother's delicate facial structure, but I was still a very ordinary looking daughter of a billionaire.

When I'd finished I wondered around the room again, bored, wondering what the others at work were thinking about my absence. The clock in the other room had said that it was nearly eleven in the morning, and my boss would have called by now to reach the answering machine on my home and mobile. And what, now that I thought about it, was Kirill doing with that mobile?

I was suddenly glad that I had no boyfriend, that there were no text messages on there that would be awkward for other people to read, for I was certain that Kirill would have no compunctions about going through my inbox and outbox.

At least there would be no avowals of love, no incriminating photos or anything – I'd learnt my lesson, anyway, when I was sixteen and had exchanged naked photos with my then-boyfriend. My mother had shrieked for hours upon finding it, to my embarrassment and indignation, but thankfully she'd never told my father. There were some things Gretkov didn't need to know, however much he pontificated on the subject.

Finding nothing of interest in the room, and having memorised the fire escape plan out of boredom, I mimicked Kirill from the night before and leant against the wall to watch out the window. I could see the alley several floors below and a slice of the main street with its constant flow of traffic, both motorised and pedestrian.

The minutes passed slowly and my feelings of boredom and exasperation grew with each one that ticked by. Kirill had said that he would not be long, but the combined forces of curiosity and ennui made the passage of time seem very slow.

Few people had passed through the alley that ran below and I was starting to slip into daydreams – free of my father, Kirill and this bloody hotel, naturally – when a man wearing dark clothes and carrying a bag over his shoulder entered my field of sight. I was quite certain it was Kirill by the man's attire, colouring and stride, although admittedly it was hard to tell from above. Then he stopped and looked up, searching the windows, and his eyes found mine through the tiny gap in the curtains. He stared for a moment and then continued on towards the main road. Definitely Kirill.

Like a dog who knows its master's coming home, I moved from standing by the window to waiting by the door, impatient for the man to unlock it and let me out – I was heartily sick of my cell. It seemed to take an inordinately long time, though, for him to enter the suite of rooms, and I supposed he had been doing typical kidnapper stuff; checking to see if he was being followed, making sure there were no cops waiting within, etc. etc.

How I would have loved to organise a reception for him here, including several members of the Paris police.

At last, though, there was the sound of the outer door opening and closing, then the one that led to the lounge, then almost-silent steps across to mine. I moved back to sit on the bed, carefully shaping my eager features into ones of the boredom that had so gripped me for the past hour and a half, but he didn't open the door – merely unlocked it.

Irritated anew, I threw open the door with perhaps a little more force than was necessary and strode out to find him shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of one of the chairs.

'I should have warned you not to make an easy target of yourself at the window, it seems,' he said coldly, unzipping the bag he had been carrying.

'I was hardly noticeable,' I scoffed. 'And I doubt anyone was looking for me there. Where they _will_ be looking for me, no doubt, is at work.'

He made no answer but instead tossed a handful of plastic bags bearing brands in my general direction. I picked them up, finding them heavy, and peered inside to see neatly folded items of clothing.

'I had to guess your size.'

'Thank you,' I replied grudgingly. Apparently it was beneath him to ask it. 'They look like they should fit.'

I retreated to the bathroom to brush my teeth after my late breakfast and take a brief shower. Afterwards I apprehensively pulled on a pair of seemingly too-small jeans, dark blue denim, to find that they fitted surprisingly well – they were tight, but showed off my long, thin legs to advantage. Kirill certainly had an eye, I thought caustically to myself.

For some reason it was oddly uncomfortable to wear clothes he had picked out and bought for me, especially as I had found some pairs of underwear in there too. Black, no lace thank goodness, just plain – but still, weird. Especially when I walked out to find him reading a newspaper and he lowered it, dark brown eyes looking me over in consideration.

My pale cheeks heated – was he thinking, like I was, of the bra and briefs he had handled which now lay against my bare skin?

'Close enough in sizing,' he grunted, and went back to his paper.

No, he wasn't. Annoyed at myself and still blushing, I headed for my bedroom – boredom was better than sitting in silence with Kirill as he read.

* * *

**AN: Well, hello again! I'm so sorry for my absence, mid-year exams came up and then I... well... forgot. *Hides* But thanks so much to those who read and especially those who reviewed, and sorry to leave you without an update for so long. Hope you enjoyed. :)**


	5. IV

Chapter Four

Embarrassed as I had been, it wasn't long before the tedium of the bedroom drove me back into Kirill's company, looking for something to occupy my thoughts and time. He had finished the newspaper, it seemed, and had turned on the television. He flicked through the channels languidly, settling at last upon a football match which he watched through half-closed eyes.

I hesitated at the other end of the coffee table, eyeing the newspaper. At last I told myself not to be such a coward, and spoke. He had done this, after all – he had put himself into my company, not the other way around.

'Do you mind if I read that?' I asked quietly.

'No.'

Not the most talkative fellow, this one. However, the newspaper would occupy my time, especially as it was in French and I still wasn't entirely comfortable reading the other language's strange alphabet.

I felt oddly removed, sitting in that hotel room, as if I was no longer involved with the normal world of worker's strikes – public transport, once again – and rising food prices. Such mundane things were beneath the notice of people like my father and Kirill, and I didn't like anything that made me more similar to them.

By the time I'd finished the newspaper, painstakingly working out the meaning of every complicated sentence, it was mid-afternoon and the next football match was well underway. I had even read the business section, which usually bored the pants off me, and the sports pages which were almost as bad. I had been so immersed in French that I hadn't noticed the passing of time, only looking up when something buzzed on the coffee table in front of me.

It was my mobile phone, vibrating to announce an incoming call. I glanced up at Kirill and, very much surprised, found him asleep. For a moment longer I stared at his face, still and foreboding even in repose, his mouth taut in an unhappy line and shadows darkening the areas beneath his eyes. His face was angular, the skin stretching over bones to create hollows, and his eyebrows were drawn down so that even in his sleep he looked tense and almost angry.

I stood, then, and snatched my phone from the table. My heart was doing its usual trick of speeding up and sending adrenalin to every limb, and my fingers tingled as I crept to my bedroom and shut the door before looking at the screen.

_Lucas_, it read above the number – a co-worker, a handsome young man with bright, laughing blue eyes and a smile to match. I pressed the green button to answer it and spoke in a low murmur.

'Hello?' It felt weird to be speaking French again.

'Manon! I got your text message – you're still up for coffee at four-thirty, right?'

'Of course,' I replied, trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible as I replied to the name I had assumed when I had arrived in France. 'How was work without me?'

'Entertaining,' he laughed. 'You put all those old chooks upstairs in a real flutter, they were talking of calling the police in to investigate why you weren't answering either of your phones.'

I forced a laugh.

'Really, I thought you knew better than to drink like that before work the next day,' he teased. 'Camille and Sophie said they didn't realise how much you'd had.'

I thought quickly. I had sent no message arranging to have coffee but it wasn't hard to work out who had – Kirill had had my phone all morning, after all. But why? What did he want with Lucas?

My absence from work he must have explained through imbibing too much drink the night before, which was something I was now going to have endure taunts about for years. I directed a sarcastic thought of gratitude towards the sleeping man in the next room and wondered what the hell he was doing, arranging a meeting with Lucas. Perhaps they were working together – but no, Lucas wouldn't have said he had gotten _my_ message, and Kirill could have used his own phone for that.

'Yes, well,' I chuckled, not having to work hard to sound embarrassed. 'Apparently, my head isn't as strong as I thought it was.'

He laughed, seeming to find nothing amiss. 'Okay then, I'll see you in a hour,' he said. 'Can't wait – it's dull here without you. Catch you later!'

'Bye,' I said, and hung up.

My heart pounding, I clutched the phone in my hand and thought rapidly. Why did I feel so nervous? I was escaping, yes, but it wasn't as if I had been in danger here of anything other than being bored and irritated to death by my captor. I knew the answer, though – the thought of Kirill waking up and finding me halfway out the door wasn't pleasant.

Don't be such a coward, I chided myself. To that end I quickly got ready, doubly thankful now that Kirill had gone shopping – he had brought me some shoes much more comfortable than the high-heeled boots I had been wearing when he sat next to me on the train.

I laced up the shoes tightly as they were a size too big and took a black jacket from its bag, tearing the tag off with my teeth. I had been dressing in frantic silence, terrified that at any moment Kirill would burst in through the door. I hadn't seen him angry yet, and something told me that I didn't want to.

Fully dressed, I left the bedroom on tiptoes, anxiously scrutinising my jailor. He was still sprawled in the armchair, the television on in front of him, his lips slightly parted in sleep. With his intense eyes hidden behind their lids he was less threatening, less predatory, but there was still tension in his body and the promise of strength. He wasn't a man to cross, I knew already, but the prospect of having to deal with my father again was even worse.

I held my breath as I shut the door to the lounge behind me, waiting for the moment when springs creaked as he leapt to his feet, but it didn't come. I searched the pockets of my old coat for my wallet, found it, and took my time in opening and shutting the heavy door that led to the corridor of the hotel outside.

It struck me then, as I stood in the hallway outside room one hundred and seventy-two, that I was free. Still, I didn't feel safe, and knew that I wouldn't until I had put a great deal of distance between myself and Kirill. Still walking carefully, even though the logical part of my brain knew that there was no chance he could hear my footsteps now, I made my way to the lift and waited anxiously for its arrival, only letting out my pent-up breath when I was safely inside and heading towards the ground floor.

I rushed through the lobby, ignoring the looks of those who turned to watch my speedy exit, and shot onto the street outside. It was wonderful to be in a crowd of people, even if it was only the little throng moving along the street; I felt less open, more protected, like I was just another sheep in the flock and safe from the wolf that was Kirill.

I had walked two blocks quite fast, my heart pounding in my ears and glancing back over my shoulder often, before I realised that I didn't know where I was going. I paused and stood back against a shop wall so that people could pass me by, stymied. It would definitely be odd if I rang Lucas and asked where we were going…

Then I realised that I probably already had that information. If Kirill had sent a message from my phone then there should be a copy of the text in my outbox. With trembling fingers I pulled the phone out.

There it was – I breathed a sigh of relief. It was not a usual meeting spot and so Kirill had included the address, and I knew that part of Paris quite well as I worked not far from there. I set off again, heading back in the direction I had come but taking a different route to avoid going past the hotel. Perhaps I was being superstitious, but I wanted to keep as far away from Kirill as possible.

I was jumpy as I headed towards the Ile de la Cité, glancing back over my shoulder ever so often and anxiously scanning the faces of all approaching men who were tall, had short black hair and wore dark clothes. I had no doubt that I looked odd, scared even, but I didn't care. I really didn't want to meet Kirill again.

I could have taken the metro but, with so much time on my hands and after spending so many hours in that hotel, it was pleasant to go by foot – even if my movement more closely resembled a twitching parody of a walk, with my head snapping around to try to see in every direction at once. That damn man had made me paranoid.

I reached the specified café with fifteen minutes to spare and took a seat indoors against the glass wall so that I had a good view of everyone walking past outside. The hot coffee was soothing to my nerves and my hands stopped shaking after a while, although I couldn't convince myself just yet that a furious Kirill wasn't going to appear around a corner at any moment.

Four-thirty came and went and I began to get edgy again. I was starting to wonder if some horrible accident had befallen Lucas courtesy of Kirill when a familiar, handsome blonde man came into sight. He scanned the tables and, finding me, gave his usual bright smile. I sighed in relief and pleasure at seeing someone so normal and a moment later we were saying hello in the customary French way, kissing each cheek.

'You certainly look hung-over,' he joked as he sat down opposite me.

My lips twitched in a feeble attempt at a smile and I stared at him blankly, suddenly not knowing what to say. What _could_ I say? Help, Lucas, a man working for the father I've never told you about took me hostage at gunpoint last night on the train?

'Manon?' he drew my attention with my French name. 'Is something wrong?'

I could only nod. 'Lucas, you're not going to believe this…'

Gone was his joking smile and his blue eyes were serious. He leant forward in his seat.

'What is it, Manon?'

I opened my mouth to explain but the words just wouldn't come. I couldn't say Kirill's name; I couldn't even mention him. Angry with myself, I shook my head and started again, but the story that came out wasn't the entire truth.

'I didn't have a hangover this morning, Lucas. A friend of my father's arrived late last night and is insisting that I go back to Russia with him, to be there when my father gets out of jail. I didn't want to go and he got violent, told me I had no choice in the matter.'

His eyes were wide, face surprised. I had never mentioned my family before except to say that we were not on speaking terms, never told him my home city or any other details. He appeared to be thinking fast and I wondered again why Kirill had wanted to meet him. I had to find out, but how?

'Violent, you said?'

'Yes, he locked me into my own damn bedroom!'

'Manon… But that isn't your real name, is it? Who is your father, that he's in jail and has these kinds of people to work for him?'

I shook my head helplessly. 'He's an awful man, Lucas. And no, my name is Katya, not Manon – my mother wasn't French at all.'

He nodded, looking down at the table as he assimilated all of this. My eyes strayed to the street outside, scanning the people walking past, wondering if Kirill was awake yet. I devoutly hoped he wasn't.

'Okay,' Lucas said decisively then, and my eyes flicked back to him. 'Come home with me and we'll call the police. Your father may have power in Moscow, but this is Paris and that friend of his will be arrested. Let's go now.'

I nodded and stood as he did, relieved yet feeling a slight flicker of guilt. I didn't like Kirill, but I didn't really want to land him in trouble when it was my father I was angry with. Perhaps I could convince Lucas not to call the police – but then, it wasn't likely that Kirill would hang around in the hotel when he found that I'd gone.

As we left the café Lucas put a comforting arm around my waist and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

'Don't worry, Katya,' he said softly. 'I won't let anyone hurt you.'

I smiled and relaxed into his hold, feeling safer than I had since I had first laid eyes on Kirill. I let him guide me through the streets as I had no idea where he lived, but that meant that my mind was free to wander. Something was nagging me, something about our conversation – I frowned, trying to think what it was.

'Lucas,' I said suddenly after a while, stopping.

He looked down at me in surprise from his great height – he was very tall, a basketball player in his spare time. I noticed our surroundings for the first time and wondered when we had left the main streets behind for the alleyways – I hadn't noticed.

'Katya?'

'I didn't mention Moscow. I said I had to return to Russia. I never named a specific place.'

He frowned down at me, looking confused, and opened his mouth to speak but a movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head and my blood ran cold.

Kirill was striding towards us, jaw set, his face cold and his body radiating danger. I cringed away instinctively, shrinking back to one side, pressing against the brick wall behind me even before I saw the gun in his hand.

He raised it and, without pausing, fired directly at us from a distance of less than fifteen metres.

* * *

**AN: A super-quick update for my faithful readers - because you guys are awesome. Thanks for reading! **


	6. V

Chapter Five

I gasped and stared in shock as Lucas fell, eyes wide in an expression of surprise and disbelief, one hand jerking feebly towards his chest where the bullet had hit. Kirill continued his advance, brown eyes cold and steady, until he stood right over the blonde Frenchman twisting and groaning in pain on the cobbles of the pavement.

Without so much as blinking he fired twice more, straight into Lucas' head. There was the muted, metallic chink of bullets fired through a silencer and the rattle of empty shells falling to the ground and then Lucas' blue eyes looked skyward with no thought or intention behind them. He was dead.

Kirill turned to me then, and in an irrational moment of terror I was sure I was going to receive the same treatment. I pressed back against the brickwork of the building behind me, unable to formulate a single word, staring at him in soundless dread.

He didn't fire, however, just spat two words at me.

'Stupid girl!'

Then he blinked as he took in my face and posture and the anger faded from his face. He stowed the gun in his pocket and displayed his empty hands briefly, palms outward, in a reassuring gesture. I breathed again and watched as he bent down to retrieve the three casings from the bullets he had fired, putting those too in a pocket. He knelt to examine Lucas' body and I glanced up and down the empty alleyway, petrified that someone had heard or seen what had just taken place.

'Why?' I managed to choke out.

At least I wasn't going to be sick this time – I had seen worse than this, the time I had really been taken hostage by people wanting money from Gretkov. My father had paid them to ensure my safety, yes, but he had then taken revenge – mere minutes after they had touched his money. With me, his daughter, still on the scene. That had been carnage and this, in comparison, was neat and tidy.

Kirill looked up, angry. 'Threats have been made against you, I said. But you would not believe me. Now do you see?'

'I see you killed a man,' I replied shakily. 'Someone I work with.'

'He had more than one job, this one,' he said grimly, and reached inside Lucas's jacket with one black-gloved hand.

He withdrew a gun and a photo – of me. It was an old one, taken back in Russia, when I had dyed my hair black and briefly delved deeply into Goth culture to antagonise my father. Surely, I thought, they could have gotten their hands on a better image of me – I was scarcely recognisable. Kirill turned it over and I saw that my Russian name was scrawled on the back.

I was chilled to my marrow by the revelation that someone I had trusted, worked with, partied with had been trying to confirm my identity in order to hurt me. I didn't want to believe it but there was no use hiding from the fact – I had noticed, after all, that he had mentioned Moscow as my father's home when I had never said so myself.

And, with this new perspective, Lucas's past behaviour seemed strange. He had always been the one most interested in my past, questioning me on each part of the story I had made up to separate myself from Gretkov. I had taken his interest as a friend's curiosity and desire to be a sympathetic listener to someone who clearly wasn't on good terms with their parents.

Now, though, his queries seemed chilling – how many times in the four months I'd known him had he come close to confirming his suspicions? How many times had I unknowingly teetered on the brink of revealing information that would kill me?

I slid down the rough brick wall to sit on the ground in the alleyway, refusing to give way to tears. I had left Russia to escape scenes like this one but it seemed that my father cast a long shadow.

A grunt from Kirill disturbed my whirling thoughts and I looked up to find that he had picked up the vastly larger Lucas. I watched, tears clouding my vision despite my every effort to hold them off, as Kirill hefted the corpse to a corner growing over with weeds, backing onto an abandoned house's tiny back garden. There he dumped Lucas' body, replacing the gun in the dead man's jacket but placing the photo of me in his own pocket.

I blinked and closed my eyes as I felt the scalding tears carve pathways down my cheeks, hearing footsteps approaching as Kirill made his way back towards me. I tried to wipe them away, not wanting him to see, but then I heard him kneel before me.

'Are you hurt?' he asked, gently – probably worried I was about to go into hysterics and bring onlookers down upon us.

I shook my head. 'Just… shocked, I think. I thought I'd finally outrun my father's name.'

'It's your name, too.'

'I know.'

'We have to get out of here. Can you stand?'

I opened my eyes to find that he was closer than I had realised, his face just inches from mine as he scanned my features critically. I had noticed before that the whites of his eyes seemed even whiter than on other people due to the darkness of his eyebrows and irises, and he had a very chiselled face – hollow cheeks, prominent bones. Everything about him combined to give off an air of quiet danger, and he had just shot a man dead in front of me. Truly, I was a lamb before a wolf.

'Yes,' I said, although I wasn't sure that I could – but I really didn't want him touching me. How many other people had he killed? He had certainly seemed competent when dispatching Lucas.

He stood and moved back as I drew a deep breath, firmly ordered my shaking limbs to obey, and tried to rise. It was harder than it had seemed and my legs didn't want to raise my weight off the ground. I was worried that I was about to fall over flat and embarrass myself in front of Kirill when he reached out and his hands locked around my arms with their customary bruising grip. He raised me to my feet and held me until he was sure I wasn't going to fall straight back down again.

'I'm okay,' I gasped, not wanting to seem any weaker than I all ready did. 'Let's get out of here.'

I took a last glance at the slight stains on the dark cobbles from Lucas' body and then allowed myself to be guided away. Kirill led me like he had done that first night, holding my arm, not to make sure that I didn't run away – where would I go, after all? – but to keep me upright and walking.

Perhaps I was sinking into clinical shock, I thought, and grew annoyed with myself. I had been naïve, I decided, thinking that I could leave my family name behind and everything that came with it. What to do now? Well, I didn't think I'd be escaping Kirill again so easily, and what would I do, anyway? I couldn't just return to my old life after going missing for a day, a day during which a co-worker ended up being shot dead in an alleyway.

As much as it grated on me to do it, I might actually have to cede to my father's wishes and Kirill's company, and return to Moscow. Maybe Gretkov wanted to redeem himself after emerging from jail, but that hardly seemed likely. It was more probable that he wanted my help to rebuild his oil business, which had been halved after he'd paid off all the charges imposed by the courts. Still, half of what he'd once had was very sizeable, and I doubted that his ego had been deflated along his bank account.

My thoughts for the future were disrupted by more at hand issues, such as the fact that I was very unsteady on my legs and we had a long way to go before we reached the hotel. I kept my head down, eyes on where I was placing my feet, allowing Kirill to guide me – and trying not to think about how many people the hand wrapped around my forearm had killed in the past.

I was surprised when he drew me to a halt and looked up to find him opening the passenger door to a black BMW sedan for me. I stepped in gratefully, relieved at the prospect of just sitting still and thinking without having to concentrate on staying upright.

A moment later Kirill slid into the driver's seat and he started the engine, pulling away smoothly. I rested my forehead against the cool, tinted glass, looking out at the streets with unseeing eyes. I was replaying Lucas' death, watching those eyes that had so often smiled at me widen in shock. His hand was pressing against his chest, trying to stem the bleeding, and then Kirill was raising the gun and firing again with detached precision, the bullets leaving two dark wells of blood on Lucas's white forehead… I felt sick.

'Katya?'

Someone shook my shoulder and I sat up quickly, looking around. It was Kirill, frowning at me.

'We're here.'

I shook my head to clear it, chastising myself for being stupid. Lucas was dead and, judging by the contents of his inner pocket, it was a very good thing too – for what other reason had he led me into that back alley, far away from the passers by, but to kill me? I had told him all he needed to be sure that I was Gretkov's daughter, and in doing so I had signed my own death warrant. He may have had a beautiful smile and charming manners, but they had hidden malevolent intent.

Kirill took my arm again although this time I didn't think it was strictly necessary, but it would have been awkward had I collapsed at his feet in the middle of the hotel lobby. I tried to arrange my features into some semblance of normality as I passed through the crowded area, but the reflection on the doors of the lift as they closed in front of me showed a bloodless face with haggard eyes.

Kirill didn't speak again until we were safely within room one hundred and seventy-two. He kept his hold on my arm until he had lowered me into an armchair, then brought out a silver flask from within his coat.

'Drink,' he commanded.

It was vodka and I swallowed a mouthful obediently as he shrugged off his coat and placed it on the couch, taking the gun and setting it on the glass coffee table.

'I hope I can trust you not to shoot me with that.'

Had he just made a joke? I glanced up, surprised, and the half-smile on his face faded into concern. He bent over me and I leant back in my seat, not comfortable with his close presence.

'Are you all right, Katya?'

I nodded and he favoured me with a close scrutiny before standing. In truth I was feeling better after the vodka, not quite so cold, and my heart rate was beginning to slow from its thunderous race. I watched as the tall man sat down on the end of the couch closest to me, not in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table like usual. He was probably worried I was going to collapse and fall straight out of my chair. I tried to smile.

'Really, I'm okay. The shock is wearing off.'

He eyed me warily, perhaps pondering whether I was lying or not. Then he sighed and sat back, not looking pleased. The concern was gone from his voice, which was clipped and cool.

'That was foolish. I'm not here to play games, Katya. There are people out there who want to hurt you.'

I looked away, at the newspaper lying where I'd left it on the coffee table, feeling guilty and idiotic. He continued, voice like ice.

'Know this – I will not fail another task for Gretkov because you are scared to face him.'

At that I looked up, stung, but something in his face stopped my denial before it escaped my lips. His eyes were burning.

'Now you will do as I tell you, Katya, or I'll chain you to your bed and you can wait out the days until we leave for Moscow there.'

I looked down, tears gathering again, then forced myself to my feet and walked slowly to my bedroom, refusing to let him see them. I shut the door behind me without looking back and fell upon my bed, burying my face in the pillows.

* * *

**AN: And two months later... an update! I have no idea why it took me so long... sorry. :/ Thank you so, so much to all who read and especially those who review, I hope you haven't all died of old age between the last chapter and this one! **


	7. VI

**A quick recap, for those who have been waiting for an update for months and months: Kirill has been sent by Gretkov to bring his estranged daughter Katya home to Moscow from Paris. She wasn't too happy about being escorted home under guard, however, and called her friend Lucas for help to escape from Kirill. However, Lucas turns out to have been planted close to her by a rival oil company, with the instruction to kill or capture her; Kirill kills him and makes Katya feel like a foolish child in the process, so relations between them are just peachy!**

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

Chapter Six

It was several hours later when I ventured out of my room, and only because I needed to go to the bathroom. Kirill was watching TV again in the gathering dark of the evening, the lamp in the corner the only source of light apart from the widescreen.

He gave no sign that he had even noticed me as I passed and I hated how he made me feel like a little child, petulantly ashamed and defiant. He was right – it had been foolish, but in my own defence I had not believed his claims. Even that, though, was a flimsy excuse and I didn't bother putting any effort into trying to make it more solid. I had been stupid. I vowed I would not appear so again before the haughty assassin my father had hired to be my guard dog.

My reflection blinked back at me in the mirror, looking horrible – eyes red and shadowed, cheeks and lips pale. Pathetic, I chided myself. How weak do you want to look in front of Kirill? I had already almost fainted from watching him kill Lucas. Was I not my father's daughter? Had I not seen much worse once before?

My attempt to separate myself from Gretkov had not worked. Maybe I should try the opposite – try to patch things up with my father, try to get along with him. We had done so reasonably well in the past, at least until my mother died, after which I had begun to place blame upon him; blame which he always turned aside onto someone else.

I sighed and turned on the shower, setting the water so hot that it scalded my skin and left it pink. Time to stop feeling sorry for myself and just deal with the situation.

I emerged swathed in a towel, another wrapped around my hair, and Kirill spoke without moving his head as I headed for my bedroom.

'Come out here when you're dressed.'

Restraining myself from snapping an ironic salute, I dressed in cotton track pants and a t-shirt before brushing out my hair with the comb from the pocket of my jacket. Only then did I emerge to sit warily in my usual armchair, eyeing him like one does a snake that may or may not be feeling energetic enough to strike.

He took his eyes from the television to slide the room service menu down the coffee table to me. He looked bored and restless, and I was still too cowed to say more to him than I had to. He didn't seem to be suffering any pangs of worry about Lucas' body and whether a trail would lead back to us. For my part, I had already decided to leave thinking about the logistical problem of a corpse to him – he had created the body, after all. If only he could erase them so easily.

How quickly I had slipped into thinking of Lucas as a problem rather than as a person! But, remembering his intentions toward me – to kill me or take me captive, I wasn't sure which – I hoped that dogs had time to eat his flesh before his corpse was found.

We ate – or rather, he did; I was still feeling a little ill – without talking, the TV bathing us both in light and sound. Kirill seemed comfortable with the silence between us but I couldn't settle around him. In my mind I kept comparing him to all of the predators I'd seen; lions, bears, wolves, so on. Perhaps the best fit was an eagle, though – he had that look, the flaring nostrils, hard eyes, intense gaze.

Soon enough his determined silence grew too much for me to stand and I retreated to the bathroom to brush my teeth, then to my room to stretch out on the bed, the light out. Kirill didn't lock the door, but then he hadn't gone to bed yet – I could hear the sonorous drone of a French television news programme from the next room. I slipped into sleep, stubbornly keeping my mind from running over the events of the day.

: - : - :

It was still dark when I woke and for a moment I lay still, wondering what had brought me out of sleep. I listened for a few seconds before pinpointing the cause – it was too quiet. The television had been switched off. I rolled over and closed my eyes with a sigh but then something else caught my attention – a low murmur, barely distinguishable.

Feeling like a child again, but drawn by insatiable curiosity, I slid from the bed and crept to the door to place my eye to the keyhole. I could see Kirill pacing up and down, his mobile phone held to his ear by one hand, the other rubbing the back of his head as he moved. By replacing my eye with my ear I was able to hear what he was saying.

'Do what you can, then. Yes. I had hoped to get rid of him in my own way, but… Yes. There wasn't any time to clean up, I had to get her back to the hotel – she was in shock, I think.' He paused, sighed. 'Any news of Gretkov's situation?'

There was silence for a while and, I saw by a quick glance, he continued to pace up and down the room.

'Yes. We'll be here a week or more, I think. The death of one will alert the others.'

I felt the chill touch of fear at that. _Others_, Kirill had said. How many enemies had I unknowingly been surrounded by while I thought myself clever and safe? Kirill gave a short, mirthless laugh, interrupting my thoughts.

'Surprised me, too. Definitely Gretkov's daughter, whatever was whispered about her mother.'

Well, that was a backhanded compliment if ever I'd heard one, although he wasn't the first to insinuate that my mother had been unfaithful.

'Keep an eye out. Yeah. Bye.'

That had to be the most I'd ever heard him speak. He hung up and, looking through the keyhole again, I saw that he had stopped his pacing and was standing still, looking thoughtfully out the window. I straightened, took a deep breath and opened the door. He looked up in surprise but didn't seem at all disturbed by the possibility that I had been listening.

'Has something happened?' I asked in reply to the silent query of his look.

He shook his head. 'Go back to sleep.'

'Are you going to lock me in again?' I asked quietly.

The corners of his mouth twitched. 'Don't like it?'

'Not at all.'

He shrugged. 'Keeps you in – and others out.'

'What if _I_ need to get out? My room catches on fire, or there's a gigantic, hairy spider?'

What the hell? How had I gone from hating him to suddenly making a joke? Even if it _was _a pathetic one.

His smile grew bigger. 'Call out. I wake easily.'

I smiled despite myself, and it seemed that I was forgiven for my stupidity earlier in the day.

'Goodnight,' I ventured.

He replied with a silent nod.

I returned to my room and closed the door, sliding back between covers that had gone cold. A moment later there was the click of the lock turning on the door, and I smiled into my pillow. Providing I didn't do anything else so stupid as trying to run away from him, I was beginning to think we might both make it back to Moscow without one of us murdering the other.

* * *

**AN: Surprised by an update? I know I am! Now, the obligatory apology: to everyone who has been waiting, I am so, so sorry. To everyone to whom I didn't reply last chapter when they reviewed, again, I thank you and ask your forgiveness. I can never remember who I've replied to and who I haven't, so I'm certain I missed a few last time around... :S The reason for the wait between chapters? Well, the reviews for the last one made me realise I needed to do some rewriting, so that's what I've been doing (when mononucleosis will let me. Not a very nice disease, that one. Urgh). The good side, for those of you who are still around, is that I have more chapters ready to come within a week (really, I do!! Please don't collapse from the shock, anyone ;) ). **

**So again, thank you so much to all who reviewed the last chapter, especially those to whom I haven't replied; I've been feeling dreadfully guilty, so expect an improved response from now on, as well as actual updates :D**

**Thanks for reading! **


	8. VII

Chapter Seven

I was facing Lucas again, this time in the middle of the floor of partitioned offices where we worked, everyone else standing around us in a silent ring as I confronted him.

'How did you know? I didn't mention Moscow,' I asked, already knowing the inevitable answer and dreading it.

Again he floundered for words, eyes darting between me and the people watching, then his hand dived for the gun I knew he had sequestered in his inner pocket.

But there was a shot then, and I looked up from Lucas' fallen, inanimate body to find Camille standing behind him, gun in her hand. I stared in open shock at the tall, willow-thin woman who habitually wore heels higher than Mount Blanc.

'I couldn't let him finish my job for me,' she said, shrugging.

Then she raised the gun again, at me – but there as another shot, again from behind, and she too fell to join Lucas on the ground. Sophie, her green eyes as happy-go-lucky as ever, grinned.

'You are mine, Katya.'

She raised the gun again, slowly, and I looked around in panic at the assembled co-workers, searching their faces.

'How many?' I shouted. 'How many of you have been lying to me?'

There was another shot – I didn't jump this time, I had been half-expecting it – and Sophie fell. Behind her was my boss, a sour, dumpy old woman with close curls of iron grey. The gun seemed out of place in her soft, sun-spotted hand.

'No!' I groaned. 'Not you as well!'

'Katya! _Katya_!'

Abruptly the scene was gone and I opened my eyes to stare up into the shadowy face of Kirill leaning over me. I gasped and shifted instinctively away, almost expecting him to raise a gun to me as well. He frowned, his face half-lit by strips of moonlight filtering through the curtains.

'You were calling out in your sleep,' he said.

'Sorry,' I muttered, embarrassed. 'Nightmare.'

He straightened, to my relief, giving me more room, and I relaxed. I raised a hand to rub at my eyes, humiliated that I didn't seem able to do a single thing around this man that didn't make me look like an idiot.

After a moment Kirill moved away, toward the door. I briefly considered trying to return to sleep, for it was still night time, but the thought made me shiver. I threw back the covers and Kirill looked back as I stood up.

'Need a drink,' I explained.

He nodded and passed through into the dark lounge room, leaving the door open. He lowered himself onto the couch as I crossed the room to the bench along the back wall, beside the small refrigerator. I noticed that a pillow lay against one arm and a blanket was heaped on the cushions.

'Are you sleeping there?' I asked incredulously as I bent down to take a cup from the cupboard beneath the sink.

'Yes,' he replied, smothering a yawn with one hand. 'I have devices on the door and windows to alert me if there's any movement.' Dark eyes flashed sardonically in my direction. 'Just in case you're thinking of running again.'

I didn't reply but took the cup filled with water and perched on the edge of an armchair. I realised that from here he had a perfect view of the outer door, with the one leading from this room to the entrance open. Before I might have scorned such precautions but now they reassured me.

'Do you think anyone will actually try to get in here?' I asked softly, almost whispering. 'Lucas is dead…'

Kirill's eyes were on the coffee table – I'd noticed that he rarely looked at people when he spoke, studying them when their eyes were elsewhere but looking over their heads or to one side if they lifted their own gaze. It was a frustrating habit.

'Lucas was just one. There are others, and one in particular to be guarded against.'

'Who?'

His face tightened. 'An American. Jason Bourne.'

'What does he want with me? What do _any_ of them want with me?'

He sighed and fiddled with the gun in his hand that I hadn't noticed before. He carried it so naturally that it seemed more like an extension of his arm than anything else.

'Bourne because he learned that Gretkov was the one who instrumented the death of his partner, and because I lived when he thought I'd died. The others… Well, your father has enemies and they would be only too glad to get hold of you.'

'But why?' I pressed. 'Father and I are not that close…'

'You will inherit most of his wealth, should he die.'

'But he's not dead.'

'No. Not at the moment.'

I shivered and sank into the leather armchair, pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. My father had always seemed invincible to me, before… but now I was being reminded that he, like the rest of us, was just a man. A man who could be injured.

'So what would they do with me, if Gretkov died?'

'Marry you, probably.'

'What?' I squeaked. '_Marry_ me?'

'And force you to sign a last will awarding all money to them if you die. Then send you away, under guard, until they felt it was safe to kill you.'

I stared at him in revulsion – the idea seemed like it had come straight out of the Middle Ages – but his eyes were on the gun he was turning over in his hands. Suddenly I was feeling much more grateful towards my father for sending Kirill to protect me, even if he wasn't the most convivial person around. There was silence in the apartment for a short while and I noticed the clock on the wall – it was four-thirty in the morning.

'You said Jason Bourne was the main threat,' I said slowly, breaking the quiet. 'Is he so much better than the others?'

Kirill's face twisted itself into a snarl. I watched, fascinated, as the anger was removed and features schooled into neutrality again.

'Yes. And better than me.'

How much had that quiet admission cost Kirill in pride? From the ugly look that remained in the man's eyes it seemed that things were personal between them. Curiosity prompted me to enquire further, although I got the feeling that I shouldn't tread there.

'Do you know him?'

He snorted but said nothing. I sensed animosity, a personal grudge – not surprising, if they had tried to kill each other yet failed.

'What happened?'

At first I thought he wouldn't answer, and there was a long, awkward silence in which I wished I could retract the question. Then he exhaled and spoke, voice clipped.

'The day Gretkov was arrested, about a year ago. Those damn Americans, interfering…' he frowned again. 'Gretkov had hired me to kill Bourne, among other things. I thought I had done so in Goa but he came back. I chased him through half of Moscow.'

He closed his eyes briefly and I waited, enthralled. I was coming to feel proud when I could coax more than five words from him at a time.

'It ended in a car wreck in a tunnel. He walked away.' His knuckles whitened where they clutched the gun. 'He should have died so many times that day.'

I was aware, then, of how deadly quiet it was. There was a low whirr from the fridge in the corner of the room but otherwise it was silent and still as Kirill recounted, his eyes on his gun, perhaps even forgetting that he was talking. I was a little surprised at such eloquence on the subject but I didn't want him to stop.

'Afterwards, Gretkov said he still had use for me, even after failing on Bourne. He received some threats against you and sent me here.'

I didn't know what to say. I was grateful that he'd spoken this much about himself, revealing his past – a thing I knew men such as he were loath to do – and distracting me from my own worries. Still, I could never put that in words without annoying him and sounding just plain awkward, so I remained silent and the seconds ticked by.

I was starting to become sleepy and the leather of the armchair was feeling very soft and warm when something on the coffee table beeped. It wasn't loud but it was insistent and it sent my heart rate straight up, eradicating all sleepiness. Kirill lunged forward to shove the newspaper aside, revealing a small black device with a red light flashing on its surface.

'Katya,' he said, voice beginning neutral but growing urgent. 'There should be a bag among the things I brought for you. Go and pack it, taking what you want most, but don't turn any lights on and make no noise. Now. Go!'

I leapt up, fear building, and obeyed with alacrity. I changed in the dark, pulling on the pair of jeans I'd worn earlier because I knew they fitted. There was indeed a satchel in one of the bags, black as most of the things were, and I stuffed clothes into it without paying much attention. I decided to leave my boots behind, much as I loved them, for their high heels were very impractical. Father could pay for me to buy a new pair, I thought angrily – my sudden fear finding an outlet in the form of fury – for putting me through all of this.

It took me only a few minutes before I was back in the lounge room where I found Kirill putting on his coat, his own bag already packed and at his feet. Remembering, I darted into the bathroom to snatch up the toothbrush and toothpaste. I couldn't live without them.

As I returned to the lounge Kirill checked his gun a final time and fitted a silencer to its end, keeping it in his hand as he shouldered his bag. Frightened and anxious, I waited for him to tell me what to do.

'Someone tried to open the door. Come. We have to leave now. Keep close behind me and we'll go to the car, parked in the alleyway behind the hotel, using the side exit. Here's a key in case I'm shot – go to this address.'

He handed me a car key and a card with an address for a place on the other side of Paris. I felt faintly sick and very jumpy, and not just because I was in danger of being shot. Kirill, too, was a target, and he himself had acknowledged that he might die in the coming minutes. I had to admire the cool way he handled it.

'Ready?' he asked, voice surprisingly gentle.

I looked up and nodded, not sure that I would be able to speak if I opened my mouth. He gave me a slight smile.

'Don't worry. I'm good at this, and they want you alive.'

Great. I had a seasoned killer as my companion. But I had to admit, as I followed him from the lounge room, that I was certainly glad he was on my side.

* * *

**AN: And, as promised, an update!!! ...in less than three month's time. Yeah. I'm proud :) Thank you so, so much to everyone who has been reading, and especially those who reviewed; thanks for sticking with the story, guys!**


	9. VIII

Chapter Eight

Kirill took his time opening the door, first moving the chest of drawers he had dragged out from a bedroom before undoing the deadbolt. He listened carefully and watched through the spy hole as he did so while I stood to one side, trembling and all the while telling myself to grow a spine and harden up.

At last he opened the door and stepped out quickly, scanning the corridor before motioning for me to follow. He took my arm in his other hand and kept his gun before him as he led me to the lift, where he stood protectively before me as he waited for it to arrive. He was tall and imposing in his dark coat as he shielded me from unseen dangers with his own body, and I wondered distractedly what the cleaning staff would think if they rounded the corner to find us like that.

The lift arrived then with a soft _ping_ and Kirill turned his head, watching as the doors opened. It was then that I saw a movement down the corridor – a dark-clothed figure stepping out from around a corner, deadly intent conveyed by his sure movement towards us.

'Look out!' I squeaked.

Kirill had already lifted his gun, however, and shot it twice into the lift before I could blink. A bullet chipped itself into the wall beside my shoulder, narrowly missing us both, and I had time to wonder at how eerily silent the fight was while I fought down my panic at my own helplessness. Kirill's free hand reached behind me, grabbed my arm and threw me into the lift as he turned to take aim at the man who had stepped into view.

A strange noise escaped my throat as I stumbled into the lift and almost stepped on the slumped body of a man, face down, a gun still in his hand; there a pool of blood gathering on the carpet and I kept to the edge of the lift to avoid stepping in it. Bizarrely, my first thought was that the cleaning staff wouldn't thank me if I left bloody footprints all over the hotel.

I looked away, quickly, and was in time to see Kirill's bullet take down the man at the other end of the corridor – bodies were beginning to drop around me with alarming regularity, and this time I didn't even flinch. Then the doors shut as Kirill leapt inside and jabbed the button for the first floor.

The classical music playing in the lift was absolutely at odds with what was happening and I was pleased to find that my anxiety was proving easier to control than perhaps might be expected.

'You all right?' Kirill grunted as he changed magazines.

'Yep.' I almost smiled at how calm I sounded – well done, Katya.

We arrived on the first floor then and Kirill stepped out quickly, gun up, scanning the deserted hallways. Finding no one, he took off with long strides, his coat flying, and I followed quickly at a jog.

He led me unerringly to the fire escape, ignoring the large sign that barred entry unless there was an emergency. The concrete stairs were cold and brightly lit, and our footsteps echoed as we clattered down the flights, Kirill in the lead, his gun always at the ready. He kicked down a door and led me out into the alleyway, a blast of cold air hitting my face.

A garbage truck passed by the top of the street, an orange light flashing atop the cab, but otherwise there was no sound or movement. Kirill led me quickly to the illegally parked BMW, tearing off and dropping a parking ticket stuck to the windscreen, and I slid gratefully into the passenger seat.

He took off as soon as his seatbelt was on, hitting the accelerator so hard that my head snapped back against the headrest. We flew out onto the main road, heedless of anyone who might be coming from either direction, but thankfully there were no other drivers around – a first for Paris, but then it was very early in the morning.

Kirill glanced in the rear view mirror and swore softly from between his teeth. I glanced back and saw why – two dark cars were coming up behind us, their lights dazzling me. I turned back to the front and sank in my seat a little with a sigh. Being a target was damn tiring.

I was thrown around in my seat like a rag doll as Kirill disregarded every cautious feeling, driving like a madman as he attempted to evade the two sedans chasing us. It was frightening and I cringed away as we brushed against other cars and signposts, forcing our way through gaps that seemed impossibly narrow.

If this brought back memories to Kirill of his run-in with Bourne he gave no sign, although it was clear that he disliked being the quarry rather than the hunter. All the time his gun lay on his lap and I couldn't help but wince at every bump or corner, half-convinced that it would go off.

Tyres screeched as we rounded a corner and took off down another road, heading straight towards the centre of the city for some reason known only to Kirill. His eyes were intense, his face set as he spun the wheel expertly, diving across two lanes to take another sharp turn.

We were racing down the Avenue des Champs Elysées then, weaving between the vehicles of other startled motorists, and it was strange to find the big road so empty. The two cars following us sped up, one coming up on either side of us, but Kirill pressed the accelerator to the floor and the BMW drew away with a roar from its powerful engine.

Suddenly there were flashes of blue and red lights from behind us and a siren rose, wailing, in the early morning air. It was my turn to swear– that was all we needed. Kirill, too, gave vent to some expletives, and then I was hanging on desperately to the edges of my seat as we swerved onto the roundabout.

'Get my window down,' he grunted.

I obeyed with some confusion, pressing the button on the console that lowered the window, letting in a rush of icy air. Kirill hit the accelerator, turned the wheel sharply, then stomped on the brakes and used the handbrake as well to bring the car to a sudden, swerving halt, his open window facing the oncoming cars. The gun was raised in seconds, bullets spraying from its end, then Kirill hit the accelerator again and we were away.

I twisted in my seat to look back, finding that we now had just one car following us, hot on our tail despite the bullet holes that peppered the car's bonnet. The other remained behind, its windscreen shattered, while the police had pulled up and were approaching it gingerly.

'Where are we going?' I shouted over the roar of the engine and the air coming in through Kirill's open window.

'The airport. Time to get out of here.'

'But I don't have my passport!'

He made no reply, his silence conveying that I was an idiot for thinking that such a menial fact would throw off his plan. I growled to myself in irritation but didn't say anything, not wanting to distract him from what he was doing, for we were flying down a street lined with shops, dodging around some early risers and earning many startled looks. Suddenly there was a bang behind us and the car skidded. Kirill swore and twisted the wheel, steadying it.

'What was that?' I asked anxiously.

'They shot a tyre,' he replied curtly. 'They want you alive.'

I could feel the imbalance in the car and the sound was all wrong; Kirill swore again, thumping the steering-wheel in anger.

'We'll have to find a new car,' he said. 'Hang on-'

But at that moment we were hit from behind as Kirill negotiated another corner at top speed. The car spun wildly, colours streaking before my eyes, and the scream of locked tyres skidding over bitumen was loud in my ears. I had time for just a second of wordless panic before we slammed into something very solid indeed. Glass shattered, metal tore apart with a groan and a screech, and there was a pained cry from Kirill as everything shuddered and slowly grew still.

* * *

**AN: Well, it's been a while! I seem to forever be promising quick updates and review replies and then failing to do just that, but the only excuse I can offer is life... I just can't seem to keep on top of it. So, as usual, HUGE thanks to everyone who has read and especially those who have reviewed (extra thanks to those who gave me a kick up the butt and told me to get back to this!), and my deepest apologies to those whose reviews I haven't answered - I just can't remember who I have and haven't replied to, so again sorry, I hope not all of you have grown sick of waiting for updates :) Enjoy!**


	10. IX

Chapter Nine

I kept very still for a moment, breathing heavily, taking stock of my body and fighting back the insane urge to laugh – yeah, that was definitely shock. My neck ached a little and I'd bumped my forehead somewhat against the window as we'd spun, but otherwise there didn't seem to be too much wrong – which was pretty good, considering we'd just hurtled into a building at high speed.

A car door slammed nearby and the reality of the situation fell upon my mind again. I glanced over my shoulder to find the car that had been chasing us had stopped and three men were approaching us slowly, warily. They were holding guns.

'Kirill?'

I turned to him and, with a cold flash of fear, saw that he was slumped over the steering wheel, his face turned from me. With shaking hands I undid my seatbelt and leant over. I felt his neck and found a pulse, quite strong – perhaps he had just been knocked out momentarily. I pulled him into an upright position, a little scared by how slack his face was and by the blood running from a cut on the side of his head.

'Kirill? Wake up!'

I shook him, probably harder than I should have, and his eyelids fluttered. A second later his eyes were staring into mine, confused and troubled – but I was so relieved that I could have kissed him.

A man came into view then through Kirill's window, a huge fellow with an ugly face characterised by a very crooked nose. He jerked open Kirill's door and turned the engine off, pulling the keys from the ignition.

Kirill turned and blinked at him in surprise and I could tell the exact moment that he recollected what had happened. A wave of horror and anger washed over his features and he dived for the gun on the floor but the other man was quicker – Kirill was pulled from his seat by the large man and a fist smashed into his jaw. I was sure that a blow with that much force had to have knocked him out and his name burst from my lips in a desperate, furious scream.

My door opened then and I turned to find two younger men reaching for me. They grabbed me by each arm and pulled me out with a jerk – I might have weighed as much as a pillow for all the difficulty they had with their task. I would have fallen but for their cruel grips which only tightened as I struggled, trying to kick their knees in. If only I'd paid more attention to the hit-men I'd once socialised with back when I lived with my father – they'd always been talking about their favourite techniques of inflicting as much pain as possible.

'Stop it!' one snarled.

'Let go,' the other snapped. 'I've got her.'

The first speaker obeyed and let go of my arm. I turned to the one still with a grip on me but he was quicker, bending the limb he held behind my back and grabbing hold of my throat. He squeezed and I felt that sick, instinctive panic that comes with strangulation, and my free hand rose to claw at his. He didn't let go.

'Don't fight, bitch, or I'll strangle you,' the man hissed.

He loosened his grip and I gulped in air, obeying because I had no wish to have the life choked from me. The one holding me seemed to be in charge and he ordered the other young one, a tall, scrawny man with reddish blonde hair, to get behind the wheel and start the engine.

'Leave him, Dimitri,' he called next to the huge man. 'We've got what we came for.'

I watched in horror as Dimitri delivered a last kick to the fallen figure of Kirill, whose body upon the pavement jerked from the force of the blow. The man holding me pushed me towards the waiting car and I threw caution to the wind, struggling as hard as I could to free myself.

'Kirill! _Kirill_!' I screamed.

'Shut up!' the man growled in my ear, shaking me by the scruff of my neck as if I were a recalcitrant puppy. 'Move!'

He was forcing me towards the car in the middle of the street, heedless of the one or two horrified bystanders who had happened upon the scene, and I could no longer see Kirill. Then there was a shot, screams, and the man holding me jerked and grunted, his grip on me tightening to the point that I cried out in pain.

Three more shots followed and then a great weight came down upon me and I fell to the ground, hitting my head anew. The man holding me landed on top and stayed there, unmoving. Something warm dripped onto my hand and I knew with sick certainty that it was blood.

There were more shots, some from behind, some from in front, and I was impressed that Kirill had managed to get his hands on a gun so quickly after being belted around by Dimitri. I crawled out from under the body of the man and blinked at the scene before me.

The gangly youth with the reddish hair was kneeling behind the open door of his car, gun in hand, looking panicked as Kirill grappled with the huge man in a leather coat. Never before had I seen him use any other weapon but a gun, but now I saw that he was just as deadly with his bare hands as he was with a weapon. He was obviously pained, obviously still groggy from being knocked out, but he had the upper hand and wasn't going to give up.

I was frozen between the two cars, watching, and I noted that we'd attracted a crowd. No doubt the screech of tyres and the sound of a smash had brought out the ten or so people who shivered in their bed clothes or clutched dressing gowns around themselves as they watched, wide-eyed, the fight before them. Several ducked away as I watched, back inside, and shut their doors. I could certainly understand why, as Kirill kicked his large aggressor to his knees and, grabbing a fistful of the man's hair, slammed his head hard against the crumpled BMW.

Kirill bent to pick up his gun and, as he straightened, the youth still taking cover behind the car door fired his own weapon. I gasped and felt a wave of cold fear spread down my back as Kirill's body jerked, and I knew he was hit, but he didn't hesitate as he brought up his gun and dispatched the other with one sure bullet to the forehead. There was deadly still and quiet on the street then beside the wrecked BMW, but the approaching wail of police sirens could be heard in the background.

I could hardly believe all this was happening, but now really wasn't the time to succumb to hysteria. I ran to Kirill who was clutching his upper arm, inspecting the wound with a grimace contorting his handsome face. He spared me only a cursory glance.

'Are you all right?'

I nodded. 'You?'

'Yes.'

_Liar_, I thought – his face was white, his eyes very dark against the bloodless skin, but he turned without another sound and retrieved his first gun and our bags from the BMW.

'Come,' he said briefly.

He headed for the nearest car, a dark blue Audi with a man standing spellbound at the driver's side. He leapt away as Kirill approached, eyes on his gun, and made no sound or movement of protest as the Russian appropriated his vehicle.

I hurried to the other side and slid in, closing the door as Kirill took off. People dived out of the way as we headed off down the street at a fearsome pace, leaving behind two cars and three bodies. I shook my head as I took a last glance in the side mirror – this was unreal. My life had been turned upside down in a matter of days, ever since Kirill had walked up and sat beside me on that train carriage. Did I regret the changes? Strangely, not as much as I had a few hours earlier. But I didn't have time to find the reasons as to why that was.

'We have to get out of here. Now,' Kirill said through gritted teeth. 'I know someone who will fly us out but it's some distance away. Can you drive?'

I glanced at him in surprise, thinking that he had to be feeling bad indeed to ask me to take over. He had blood spilling from a cut above his eyebrow, though, so perhaps it was not so much the pain of his bullet wound as the inconvenience of having to hold his head on an angle to avoid obscuring his vision. The seats of the stolen car were rapidly turning dark as the blood soaked into the grey material.

'Of course.'

'I'll pull over once we're outside Paris,' he said.

We drove on in silence, my thoughts full of fear and blood and anger.

* * *

**AN: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has been reviewing! You guys are why I keep writing this story.**


	11. X

Chapter Ten

Kirill stopped the car once we were clear of the city, heading north along an autoroute. He pulled off the main highway onto an exit, then a dirt road, driving for another few minutes before taking the stolen Audi onto the grass verge and killing the engine. Fields surrounded us, bordered with hedges, full of cattle grazing peacefully as the sun rose.

'Are you sure you're okay?' I asked.

'Yes.'

'I don't believe you. Take off your jacket, let me see your arm.'

He eyed me for a moment – irritated, I thought, and exasperated with me; well, nothing new there – before slowly pulling off his coat and jumper, clearly favouring his left arm. He held it out in my direction and looked straight ahead through the windscreen.

I pushed back the sleeve of his dark shirt slowly, carefully, my fingertips becoming coated with the blood that had soaked into and spread through the cloth. He had very spare limbs – there was muscle, bone, tendons and veins outlined starkly beneath his skin, which showed that he had recently been wearing a t-shirt in somewhere very sunny; had my father sent him somewhere tropical recently, perhaps?

I tried not to stare at the swell of his biceps, the sharp lines and contours of his shoulders, had to resist the impulse to trace those winding veins and old scars…

That crash had definitely done something to my head. I bit my lip and concentrated on the wound above the elbow which did not seem deep, thank goodness – it appeared that the bullet had clipped him rather than hit him. I wondered what it felt like to be shot.

'Do you have a first aid kit?' I asked.

'No.' His tone implied that I was wasting valuable time.

I felt it was a stupid omission from the baggage of someone with a job like his, but I certainly wasn't going to tell him that. I reached behind my seat for my bag and withdrew one of the shirts he had bought me; serviceable white cotton. It would do well enough as a bandage.

'Do you have a knife?' Scissors didn't seem at all his style.

He leant down, reaching his good hand towards his foot and straightening with a wickedly sharp blade, short and strong. I raised my eyebrows but he was staring straight ahead again and didn't say anything as I cut the sleeve from the shirt into strips.

I bound the wound as well as I could and wished for some painkillers for myself, for my forehead was throbbing and developing into a real headache.

We switched sides then, Kirill taking the opportunity to fit fake numberplates, and it was only when I passed him to take the wheel that I realised that one side of his face was encrusted with dried blood. It was a dead giveaway.

'What?' he asked, sounding annoyed, as I peered at his face in dismay.

I gestured. 'Blood.'

He flipped down the sun visor and slid back the cover on the mirror, surveying himself dispassionately. He muttered a curse and leant back to withdraw a bottle of water from within his bag. He offered it to me first – I declined – drank from it himself, then used the remainder of the shirt I had cut up as a wash cloth and towel. Wondering what I myself looked like, I checked in the mirror to see that I had a sizeable lump on my head from the car crash and my face appeared tired, pale and frightened.

'What are those?' Kirill asked, surprising me.

'Sorry?'

He reached out a long finger and touched my throat, very gently. Despite myself I shivered, imagining how easily he would be able to snap my neck with those strong hands (and stopping myself entirely from thinking what else he could be touching on my body like that. Ick, Katya, this really wasn't the time to start reverting back to a hormonal teenager's reactions). I shifted the angle of the mirror and lifted my chin, turning my head to one side to see what he had meant. There were several scratches and faint bruises, and I certainly knew what from.

'He choked me,' I replied briefly.

He said nothing, but then I hadn't really expected him to. He was very good at making his non-replies feel slightly insulting, even though I knew that was ridiculous, at least in this particular scenario. Still, my nerves were on the raw and after what had just happened it was perhaps understandable that I wasn't really thinking straight; he said nothing as I turned the car around rather too fast, wheels spinning through the dirt, and we raced back towards the autoroute.

We drove in silence for a while and I found my unreasonable anger wearing off to be replaced with tiredness; after all, we'd each had only a handful of hours of sleep. Thinking about the past was slightly more pleasant than worrying about the future, and I wondered if that car crash had brought back Kirill's memories of the last such incident, the time Bourne had almost killed him. That reminded me.

'Do you know who those men were?' I asked as I changed lanes to overtake a slow-moving blue sedan. 'Was Bourne with them?'

He had his head tipped back, leaning against the headrest, eyes closed. That worried me. Was there any way I could get him to a doctor?

'No,' he snorted, not opening his eyes. 'Bourne works alone.'

There was enough derision expressed in those four words to tell me that he thought my idea laughable, and once again seething I decided to employ his own tactics and remain silent. It worked; after a while, he spoke again.

'They worked for a rival of your father. Like Lucas did.'

Ah, Lucas. Someone I really, really didn't want to think about. But I couldn't stop myself from imagining his body still slumped where we had left it in a back alley of Paris, a dark bullet hole marring his deathly-white forehead… But surely someone would have found him by now. We drove in silence for another couple of kilometres after that, with me stealing glances at him a couple of times a minute as my irritation with him faded into concern. He looked tired, worn, pained – and his eyes stayed shut. At last I could bear it no longer.

'Kirill, are you okay? Really?'

His dark eyes snapped open and glared at me. '_Yes_.'

I sighed and looked back at the road. He probably wouldn't tell me if an artery had been severed. Stupid, prideful men.

: - : - :

I thought he'd fallen asleep and was wondering how far I was going to have to drive when Kirill spoke, startling me.

'Pull in at the next fast food place.'

'Why?'

He sighed – me and my stupid questions, I supposed. 'We need a different car.'

There was a McDonald's about half a kilometre after that and I slowed, indicating that I was turning. I parked in the middle of the closest row to the place itself, following Kirill's directions, where our abandoned car would be sure of being surrounded by others that would hide it.

I looked somewhat enviously at a couple who were entering, thinking of the food inside that was disgustingly greasy but tasty and filling nonetheless. Kirill saw where I was looking.

'We'll get some food and clean up. Come on.'

I was surprised but wasn't about to argue. We took our bags and Kirill noted in annoyance that he should have made me put on gloves. Too late for that now, really – my fingerprints were everywhere by now, and there was no time to dispose of the car properly or wipe it down.

I followed Kirill across into the McDonald's, glancing around a little suspiciously. It was sparsely populated with people eating breakfast and no one seemed to notice our bruised and battered state. Perhaps Kirill was wiser in choosing black clothes than I had given him credit for – the blood hardly showed.

The person ahead of us moved away with their tray and it was our turn. The serving girl's hazel eyes found my throat and lingered there, then flicked to Kirill in a glance both accusatory and disgusted. I remembered the marks there from my attacker's strong fingers and found it somewhat amusing that Kirill should be blamed as an abusive partner when he had saved me from further rough treatment.

From the look on Kirill's face, he too was aware of the thoughts running through the girl's head, and he certainly didn't seem to find them funny. His frown deepened and his voice was rough with annoyance as he ordered in terse French, probably not improving his image with his curtness.

We sat down at a table against the glass window and Kirill surveyed the surroundings critically, murmuring that the view of the car park from the restaurant was well obscured. I felt better after eating and finished first, then stood up without a word to go to the bathroom.

I took my bag with me and, thankfully finding the restroom empty, brushed my teeth while assessing my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a mess so I re-braided it, wishing I could have a shower and wash it clean. My throat really was starting to bruise and I remembered all the crime shows I'd watched, where victims of strangulations always had a ring of blue and purple around their necks. I shuddered.

There wasn't much I could do about the lump on my forehead either, and I found that my cheek was a little grazed where I had fallen to the road. Still, considering the car crash and the scene that had followed, my body was in remarkably good shape. I washed my face with cold water and scrubbed it dry with paper towel, then watched as a little colour returned to my cheeks.

When I emerged from the bathroom it was to find that Kirill had been rather quicker than I and was back at the table, his cut entirely clean now and his short hair a little damp. He stood as I approached and we left without a word.

We walked slowly across the car park as a family emerged from their sedan, the children running towards the doors, the parents following tiredly. Only when they were gone did Kirill hone in on his target, a black Peugeot, and I fitted the magnetic false numberplates he handed me as he fiddled with the lock.

I had no idea how he did it, but he had the car unlocked and the engine started by the time I'd gotten the numberplates on properly. I got in hurriedly and he backed out of the spot, then paused and wound the window down.

'Do you still have the keys?'

I pulled the keys from the stolen Audi from my pocket and handed them to him. He threw them from the window into the now empty bay where the Peugeot had been and took off, winding the window back up again.

'We will be in Russia soon,' he said, ignoring the speed limit as we joined the light flow of traffic heading away from Paris. 'But you won't ever be able to return to France.'

I nodded, too exhausted to argue against what I knew to be true, and leant my head against the cool glass of my window. So I would be back in Moscow by nightfall. It certainly looked like the only place for me now that I had become such a target. Certainly, there were more enemies of my father there, but he also had many people working for him and I didn't have my prints all over a stolen car or a dead colleague abandoned in an alleyway. It seemed that my brief time of flying under the radar was over.

I meant to stay awake but I was tired, so tired, and the purr of the engine and the motion of the car lulled me to sleep.

* * *

**AN: I know this chapter's a little slow after the excitement of the last ones, but hopefully no one fell asleep :) Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading, reviewing and adding this to their alerts and/or favourites! **


	12. XI

**AN: **Before we begin, a quick summary of the story thus far for anyone who has forgotten (which is more than likely considering the length of time since my last update... once again, my abject apologies! I know this is no way to treat my readers, it's definitely time to get this finished).

Gretkov, although still in prison, has hired Kirill to retrieve his errant daughter Katya from Paris, where she had built up a life for herself under a false name after fleeing the shadow of her father's influence in Russia. Katya was not at all pleased about being held hostage in a hotel room at gunpoint, and escaped and arranged a meeting with her colleague and friend Lucas in order to get his help to get away from Kirill... but he happened to be working for one of the other powerful men back in Russia who wants Gretkov's still significant wealth for himself, namely by marrying Katya, having her property signed over to him and then disposing of her. Kirill, after killing Lucas, is forced to get himself and Katya out of Paris in a hurry, and they flee for the airport but are pursued by several hired men in cars - afterall, it's just not Bourne if there isn't a car chase! - and there was a crash, followed by a scuffle in which the baddies all ended up dead (good job, Kirill). This brings us to the present moment.

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

My sleep was interrupted by Kirill's hand on my shoulder, a hard, impersonal grasp and a quick shake that brought me quickly to wakefulness. We were in an underground car park, a cavernous place filled with rows and rows of vehicles, and Kirill was pulling out his mobile phone and checking for reception.

'When you bought me clothes, did you get a scarf or something?' I asked, remembering the way the McDonald's staff had stared at the evidence of our earlier car crash and run-in with a gang of thugs.

'A scarf?' His tone implied that whatever wits I had possessed had been knocked askew by the impact.

'To hide these.' I touched the marks on my throat. 'Unless you want to continue in the role of abusive husband, of course.'

He didn't see the humour, apparently, and only shrugged unhelpfully, raising the phone to his ear as I reached for my bag and searched it. I found no scarf or high-necked garment, so Kirill would just have to put up with being thought a wife-beater. I smiled a little; it was a revenge of sorts, I supposed.

Kirill's call went unanswered and, with visibly gathering impatience, he dialled again and again whilst I waited anxiously. Finally there was a click and I could hear a faint voice speaking grumpily in a language I didn't understand.

Kirill replied in the same – German, it turned out to be – and I listened in uncomprehending silence. French and English were the extent of my language skills beyond Russian, but it seemed that Kirill spoke a dialect for every occasion.

It was a long conversation, Kirill alternating between cajoling, reasoning and downright threatening – or so it seemed from his tone – and finally he hung up. I looked at him expectantly.

'Well?' I asked, when it seemed that no answer to my silent question was forthcoming.

'Half an hour until our flight.'

With a sigh I settled back in my seat and Kirill turned on the radio, keeping the volume low although it was fuzzy and crackly due to the concrete walls of the car park around us.

I listened to the news with only half an ear, trying to go back to sleep again, but the mention of my French name broke me from my doze.

'-Manon Perec has been reported missing and her colleague, Lucas Martin, has been found shot dead in an alleyway in the sixth arrondissement of Paris earlier this morning. It is believed that she is now in the company of an unknown man and the pair, pursued by gangs of Russian men in cars, have fled the city leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.'

The newsreader soon moved onto another story and I sat very still, imagining what the rest of my co-workers had to be thinking right now. As far as I was concerned, Manon Perec was now dead; she could never return to this country. The thought wasn't as upsetting as I'd expected it to be – something within me had hardened over these past few days with Kirill, seeing people die and being glad about it because the only other option was my own death.

There was nothing left for me in Paris. All I could do was return to being Katya, and the idea did not inspire the revulsion it would have done a fortnight ago. I was becoming used to it again, this underworld way of life of guns and hit men and large, useful amounts of cash. I had grown up playing cards with my father's bodyguards, watching them clean and reload guns and practice martial arts on each other. I had been kidnapped once as a teenager and held to ransom; I had seen bodies laid out in coffins bearing the marks of torture.

I was going home in more ways than one. For four years I had fought against my father and that version of myself, and as a teenager I had delved into pretty much every deviant culture I could find as a way to distance myself from him (and inspire paternal wrath). It was time, I felt, to put aside the pretensions and face down who I really was.

I no longer had the constraint, the knowledge that I should feel scared by threats, should feel abhorrence for violence, should be shocked and distraught by the people dying around me. My father had been the very definition of ruthless, although Kirill seemed to be in the same league; I was not going to be the cringing little girl anymore, crying and helpless, revolted by what was going on around her.

I nearly laughed aloud – I was crossing to the dark side, if one didn't mind hyperbole, and I couldn't feel sorry for it. I had always lacked some crucial part of my conscience, no matter how much I had tried to pretend otherwise.

'How did you do it?' Kirill asked then, startling me from my internal monologue, his eyes still staring straight ahead at the car park around us.

'Sorry?'

'Your cover. What was it?'

'I told them that my mother was French and had married a Russian, a man I didn't get along with. They divorced when I was seven and I took my mother's name. Then, when she died, I came to Paris to get away from my father. It was close enough to the truth that I didn't slip up.'

He nodded and said nothing more, and we waited in silence for another twenty or so minutes before he started the car's engine again and eased out of the tight parking place. It wasn't to any of the commercial terminals that we headed, though – it was towards the back of the airport, a place I'd never been before, to the hangars where the privately owned planes were kept. We stopped at a gatehouse in a high chain-link fence and a guard strode out to meet us. Kirill wound down the window and spoke in his accented yet understandable French.

'We're flying with Hans this morning,' he said.

The guard appeared to consult his clipboard. I could only see his hands – his face was out of sight.

'I have no record of a scheduled flight for him today,' was the reply.

'Ask him. Here he comes,' Kirill said, pointing through the windscreen.

A short, squat figure in a long brown coat was approaching, a man with eyes almost hidden in a doughy face and thin wisps of dark hair poking from beneath a shapeless felt hat. He was half drunk, to judge from his staggering steps, and I wondered that Kirill was willing to fly and risk his life with such a person. I wasn't sure that I wanted to risk mine, whatever trust Kirill had in him.

The man, Hans I assumed, started shouting in slurred German as soon as he was in earshot. I saw the guard stiffen, his hands tightening around his clipboard, and he spoke in freezing French.

'You should have entered it last night, Hans,' the guard said coldly.

Hans replied in German, despite the fact that he obviously understood French, and he seemed to win the exchange for the guard retreated to the gatehouse without another word, his shoulders rigid in anger. The pilot turned and marched off in a not-quite-straight line for the plane already waiting upon the tarmac, and Kirill drove forward slowly as the gate before us lifted out of the way.

He parked in a row of cars and we got out, finding the day warmer than the previous few. I took off my coat but he left his on as we retrieved our bags and walked away from the Peugeot, leaving the keys in the console.

It was becoming a bright, slightly windy day, heralding the advent of spring, and I glanced around as we approached the small jet. This was the quieter part of the airport, out of view of the commercial centre, but I could still hear the rumble and roar of the large passenger planes taking off and see them rise from the other side of the buildings, massive against the sky.

I followed Kirill hesitantly up the steps and found myself in a luxury jet with wide leather armchairs, a couch against one wall and a bar fridge. It reminded me of my father's plane. Kirill sprawled on the couch; I sat down slowly on one of the armchairs.

The pilot threw back the door to the cockpit and strode out, already talking fast in German. Kirill opened one eye and replied slowly, and then I shrank back in my chair as Hans turned his pale eyes upon me, almost hidden between thick folds of skin. I didn't understand what he said but it was apparent from his tone and look that it was lascivious. I returned his glance with disgust, my skin crawling, and Kirill raised himself onto his elbows, growling something.

I thought I heard my father's name and that seemed to work like a charm. Hans snorted and turned around, retreating into the cockpit and shutting the door and I glanced over at Kirill, who lay down again and closed his eyes.

'He says we must wait an hour before we can take off.'

That seemed to me an impossibly long time. I was convinced that at any moment the police would track us down and arrive with sirens wailing to take us both into custody. It would be nice to speak my own language again, to stop having to think before I opened my mouth in case I was about to blow my own cover.

I picked up the first magazine from the pile on the little table and tried to interest myself in last month's celebrity gossip and fashion, but it was hard. I was edgy and the headache didn't help; I thought longingly of painkillers.

Kirill seemed to be sleeping, or maybe just resting – it was hard to tell with him. Hans was busy in the cockpit and I could hear his hoarse voice, probably clearing flight details.

I soon grew bored of the magazine and tossed it back onto the table, and took to staring out the window instead – watching the huge passenger planes take off and come down behind the large buildings that were the commercial terminals.

Boredom had well and truly set in and the minutes seemed to be dragging past when at last Hans came in and said something to Kirill, who sat up immediately.

'We're ready,' he said, and I felt a little thrill run through me.

The door to the jet was shut and we taxied down the runway, where we waited for a last few agonising minutes. I was anxious to get off the ground and only then would my nervousness about the possibility of impending arrest subside.

Then we commenced our dash down the runway, the speed pushing me back in my seat, and we lifted into the air; we climbed, pressure building against my ears, and the ground fell away beneath us.

I didn't relax until we were high in the air, France spread out beneath us, and then I sighed and turned to Kirill to ask a question that had been nagging at me.

'What will happen when we get to Moscow?'

Would I be kept under guard again? It would be unnecessary; I had no desire to run away again. Knowing that I was going back to Russia had eased something within me that I hadn't realised had been aching – I was going home, and this time I would make it work.

'There's a safe house waiting.'

That still left the problem of what I was going to _do _in Moscow. I had become accustomed to filling my hours with work over the years I'd been Manon living alone in Paris; mind you, it had been an unwelcome shock at first, learning to work for everything that I bought. I had become much more circumspect in my purchases, that was certain.

I wouldn't be able to work in Moscow, not with my father setting men to guard and drive me, and besides he thought that it was demeaning for one of his family to work for someone else. Unless I fancied a position in Pekos, his oil company, I would have to amuse myself like any other twenty-four-year-old with money and time to burn; shopping, drinking, partying, all with security in tow.

Not an altogether unappealing proposition, but the fact remained that I hadn't been in Moscow for four years, and I had left quite abruptly without really saying goodbye to my friends. Would any of them still be there? We had talked through email occasionally, but less often as the years passed and I worked while they partied.

I sighed yet again and settled back more comfortably in my seat. That was a problem I would sort out when we got to Moscow.

**AN: You can all thank the lovely jamsaner for the fact that I'm updating again - and I know I've said this before, but I really am determined to get this finished and done with. It's been dragging on for far too long and I need to stop being lazy and actually finish a story (my biggest hurdle in writing). Thank you so SO much to everyone who has added this to their favourites or alerts, and an even bigger thank you to all who reviewed! Stay tuned for more, there will be another chapter within 24 hours (please do try not to die of shock when that happens :P)**


	13. XII

Chapter Twelve

We flew in silence for much of the way for Kirill soon fell asleep, his face a pale, drawn mask of exhaustion. I was still concerned that the car crash and resulting injuries had hurt him, perhaps badly, but there really wasn't much I could do about it from up here in the air. Besides, he had probably survived worse. His job wasn't exactly controlled by government-set occupational health and safety regulations.

I tried not to stare but there was something magnetic about him, even in repose. His mouth turned down unhappily and he appeared to frown; every now and again his dark lashes would flutter and I would look away guiltily, scared that I was about to be caught watching him. I told myself it was ridiculous to wish that I could smooth away those frown lines on his forehead, between his brows; run a finger along those knife-edge cheekbones; trace the soft curve of the lips of a killer.

I had to be concussed, there was no other explanation for it. I curled my hands into fists so that my nails dug into my palms and tried to think of anything except the slumbering hit man sitting opposite me on the plane. I didn't want to like him. I could never trust him.

I had to hold onto those two convictions very, very tightly – perhaps I was starting to get Stockholm syndrome or something. The idea that Kirill could ever view me as anything more than a job, a parcel to be delivered more or less intact was laughable. I had to remember that.

We had left at about eight in the morning and it was around midday when Kirill awoke, stretching out with a slight groan before standing; I kept my gaze directed straight out the window, although I could feel my cheeks heating up – did he know how I had been studying him while he slept?.

If he did, he gave no sign. He made his way to the cockpit, pulling open the door to converse with our dubious pilot, Hans, before returning to his seat a moment later. He took the receiver from the phone on the wall of the plane and dialled a number.

'It's me,' he said a few seconds later, his voice slightly husky. 'We had to leave early and we're halfway to Moscow now. Central Airfield, four-thirty.'

He was silent for a little while, listening.

'Fine. Yes, I'll watch her until he arrives. But I'm to be paid for it.'

I was certain that I was the "her" he had mentioned, and the reference hadn't been in a flattering tone either. Kirill had graciously consented to stay with me until someone else arrived to baby-sit the twenty-four year old woman who had, until quite recently, managed to look after herself perfectly well thank you very much!

I could feel myself bristling but Kirill didn't deign to glance in my direction. And of course he wanted extra money – he was a mercenary and I was nothing but a job to him. I could find no rational explanation for why that thought made tears suddenly well up in my eyes, so that I had to blink rapidly and turn my face away lest he saw… it could only be a delayed reaction from the tumultuous events of the past few days. That was what I was telling myself, anyway, as I struggled for control.

'Good.' Kirill hung up on that terse word and finally glanced over in my direction. I hoped that my eyes hadn't reddened.

'Your guard won't arrive until Monday. I'm to stay with you until then.'

I had to clear my throat before I could reply. 'What's today?'

'Thursday.'

Great. More time with Mr. Conversation here. We returned to an uncomfortable silence – or at least, _I _was uncomfortable. _He_ seemed perfectly at his ease, although tired, as he reclined in his seat. I turned to stare out the window again, fighting down those unaccountable sobs that were once again trying to wrest their way from my chest. _Why_ was I suddenly so pathetic?

'Katya?'

I jumped and found myself the object of Kirill's scrutiny – he had an impressive talent for watching me without my knowing.

'What?' I snapped, with vehemence brought about by embarrassment at my barely controlled crying episode. He better not have noticed…

He just looked at me in that derisive way of his, his eyes doing all the talking. They said that I was being a fool again, and that only fanned the smouldering fire of resentment that been sparked by the contempt with which he had treated me during our time together. My hatred rose to choke me – I wanted to wound him, to pierce that taciturn armour and see him on the defensive as I had been so many times when faced with his cold remarks and effective silences.

'Oh, fuck off,' I snarled, to no observable response in his expression, and that only made me madder. 'I'm sick to death of you!'

He snorted. 'Likewise. You're in shock. I suggest you sleep off your hysteria.'

With that he stood and strolled back to the cockpit, disappearing within and shutting the door behind him. I was left with tears running freely down my face and silent sobs heaving my chest, upset and furious at being so utterly helpless in my dealings with that detestable man.

: - : - :

I had thought myself far too riled up to be able to follow Kirill's advice but I fell asleep not long after. I awoke not in the aeroplane, but in the leather back seat of a Mercedes with very heavily tinted windows. I wondered blearily how I had gotten there.

'Where are we going?' I asked.

Kirill was in the front passenger seat, and he didn't look round – it was the driver who answered, a thickset man in his thirties with a shaved head, a previously broken nose and a cheerful countenance which belied the hardness of his dark eyes. He shot me a small but friendly smile over his shoulder.

'Mr Gretkov arranged for you an apartment in Ramenki, Miss. My name is Keshav, and I am your driver.'

'Pleased to meet you, Keshav. I understand my father has also arranged for a bodyguard – when will he arrive?'

'As soon as he can, Miss. In a couple of days, I expect.'

'I can't wait.' I thought I detected a slight stiffening in Kirill's back and that brought me a vindictive thrill. 'What do you know of him?'

'He's not much older than you, Miss,' Keshav replied, with a smile directed at me through the rear-vision mirror. 'He spent several years in the secret service but left for higher paying jobs. The boss thought you'd like him.'

The boss – that could only be my father. I rolled my eyes. 'Then after three days of his company I'll probably be ready to shoot him.'

That drew a laugh from the driver. 'Nah, he's a good kid, that Alexei.'

I let the conversation lapse and instead turned my gaze out the window. Moscow, my home city! It had been four years since I'd seen her last and I drank in the sight. It was lovely to be surrounded by my own language, too; I'd become almost colloquial in my French but slipping back into Russian was like releasing a muscle I had not known had been tense.

Keshav was just the kind of driver I liked – fast. He had no objection to breaking the speed limit and seemed oblivious to the honks and angry calls of other motorists, and we pulled into the underground car park of the luxurious apartment block that was our destination in record time. He opened my door while Kirill emerged to stand silently a few paces behind me, his face a cold and forbidding mask.

Keshav shouldered the two bags that were our only luggage and led the way up a ramp to sliding glass doors that opened into a spacious foyer. The floors were tiled and a pool occupied the middle of the room, filled with lilies and goldfish, its water frothing gently from the fountain in the middle.

A smiling girl behind a desk greeted us with perfect manners and no sign of surprise. Without needing even to ask our names she handed me a set of keys and assured me that, for maximum security, there was always a member of staff there to intercept visitors. I smiled back as best I could, and tried to look as if I believed her.

Kirill said nothing as the lift doors closed and he pressed the button for the ninth floor, and I couldn't help but think back to the first time I had been in a lift with him, more than a little scared in that hotel in Paris. It felt so long ago, and I couldn't say that we stood on much better relations with each other than we had on that occasion.

The lift stopped with a soft _ping_ and opened to reveal a corridor with just two doors. Keshav led me unerringly to the one on the right, number twenty-five, and stood aside so that I could unlock the door and let us in.

I entered and groped instinctively for the light switch I knew had to be there. Moments later the bulbs overhead flickered to life and I looked around, forced to admit that my father had gone to a lot of expense for me. It was luxuriously furnished and decorated, with an open-plan lounge, dining room and modern kitchen bright with steel and white tiles. Venetian blinds covered the windows and I crossed the room to peek through them – the lights of Moscow glittered below in the gathering dark of the winter evening.

From the doors leading off I found a bathroom, study and two bedrooms; one was larger with an ensuite and all of the belongings I had left in my old room in Gretkov's house had mysteriously appeared in this new setting. I stared, astounded, at the huge fluffy bear sitting in the corner between my wardrobe and a bookshelf, and resisted an urge to sweep the assembled photos and trinkets off the top of the chest of drawers and onto the ground.

Opening the doors to the built-in-wardrobe I found that, sure enough, the clothes I had left behind four years ago when I had moved to Paris were hanging up neatly. I swore and slammed the doors.

It was when I turned to survey the large room anew that I noticed the envelope resting on the end of the double bed, very white against the dark blue cloth of the sheets and duvet. I snatched it up, ripped it open and pulled out the piece of paper, discovering too a credit card.

_Katya,_

_I am glad to have you returned to Moscow. You can contact me through any of the men I have left at your disposal, should you have need. I shall see you soon, daughter._

There was no name but the handwriting was my father's, as was the manner which I bridled at instinctively. I had, on the way here, occasionally indulged in a fantasy of a blissful father-daughter relationship, devoid of argument and disputation – but I knew it could never be. Gretkov and I were too similar; stubborn, determined, proud. Both of us hated to be proved wrong, and I chafed at the control that he felt he just had to impose.

I left my room to find Kirill standing at one of the windows, peering through a gap in the blinds. He turned to me and I shut the door to the bedroom, not wanting him to see the giant teddy bear in the corner. We stared at each other for a few seconds, my gaze dark, his impassive, before I stalked to one of the armchairs and threw myself down upon it.

I had no idea what to do now.

* * *

**AN: As promised! Thank you so much to everyone who reads, and especially those who reviewed. And for the unsigned reviewer who asked - most definitely! In fact, probably more than one ;)**


	14. XIII

Chapter Thirteen

Crushing boredom. I should have welcomed it after the events of the past few days but instead I was as restless and irritable as a caged cat after only a couple of hours in my own country. Kirill was no help, either; he sat on the sofa with an utterly impassive face, his dark eyes following me as I paced up and down the length of the living room. At last I stopped and sat down in a chair opposite him – I was determined to have answers to some pressing questions.

'So tell me,' I started. 'What's been happening with my father's business since he was arrested?'

He gave me that level look that somehow said I was an idiot for even asking. 'I'm a hit man, not an accountant.'

I glared. This wasn't a promising start. 'You'll still know more than me.'

He sighed, presumably in frustration. 'I believe your uncle has been running things on behalf of Gretkov.'

'Sergei?' I exclaimed, startled.

He nodded, once, and I pondered that for a while. I hadn't seen my father's step-brother in years – he and Father had never really gotten along and it was interesting that he had been called in to take the reins of the empire he had for so long coveted. My father must have felt that blood, even only half-shared, was more likely to remain loyal than his other men – perhaps there was treachery amongst those who had once been his most trusted lieutenants.

Although I was certain that those very same men would be placed close to Sergei, watching, listening – perhaps waiting for him to slip up so that they could dispose of him with my father's blessings and take control themselves. They would be rewarded well for their efforts in maintaining Pekos when Father was finally able to walk free.

'When will my father be out of prison?' He had been sent away for more than twenty years but I knew better than to believe that that would stand.

Kirill shrugged. 'Soon.'

'How soon?'

Another shrug. This was getting irritating.

'Alright then,' I said through gritted teeth, struggling to control my temper at his evasiveness. 'Explain the nature of the threats against me.'

'I don't know.'

'Bullshit. You told me in Paris that others have eyes to the wealth of Pekos. The business must still be worth a lot, if that is the case.'

Kirill was now refusing to look at me. He had an annoying habit of talking with his eyes focused not on me but on some inanimate object on the other side of the room, only glancing over when he had a particularly crushing observation to make.

'Gretkov has men in prisons across the country, but so do others. And one in particular has been growing restive after Gretkov refused to sell him the drilling rights in the Caspian sea.'

This was verbose, for Kirill, although each word left his lips reluctantly.

'Who?'

'His name is Pavel Koretsky.'

'Koretsky.' I rolled the name around in my mouth, thinking. 'I've never heard of him. Is my father at risk?'

A stupid question – my father was always at risk, that I knew. My real question was whether Gretkov stood in imminent danger of being assassinated – a knife in the back in prison late at night, a pair of strangling hands in the shower, a quick shove down a set of stairs or over a railing… Whatever issues I had with my father, I still had that fierce instinct to look after my own. I could hardly bear the thought of such an ignominious end for him.

'He's protected.'

'Oh, how you've put my mind at ease,' I replied with heavy sarcasm.

Kirill said nothing but I wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. We were home now, and his role had changed from that of captor to protector. He was damn well going to answer me even if I had to drag each word from his mouth.

'You mentioned another, an American. By the name of Bourne, I think.'

The muscles of Kirill's jaw flexed but he remained otherwise relaxed, his gaze still directed somewhere over my right shoulder. He had such dark irises and hair; they made the whites of his eyes seem very bright and clear, which was strange considering how tired he had to be – and there was still the probability of concussion following that skirmish with the would-be assassins in the streets of Paris.

'Well?' I added, when it became apparent that he wasn't going to offer anything of his own volition.

'Bourne is… back.'

'Back?'

'He flew into Turkey three weeks ago. Twelve hours later he booked flights to Italy, Portugal, Spain, Ireland, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany… and France.'

I felt a cold chill down my spine. 'That's when my father decided to get me out of Paris?'

Again, that infuriating shrug, and then I did something very stupid. I had a tendency to antagonise people whom I actually wanted to like me – it was as if I just couldn't help stupid things from slipping out of my mouth, and they always ended up sounding nothing like what I had intended them to. Perhaps it was a nervous thing.

'You once said that Bourne was better than you.'

Finally, I had his attention. Those dark eyes bored into mine and he lifted an eyebrow – he might as well have said "so?".

'What good will your presence be if he finds me here? You said that he was after you as well. Maybe you shouldn't wait for Alexei to get here. Maybe you should start running.'

That did it. I refused to let myself quail as his face assumed that cold, quietly murderous mask that indicated he was angry. I told myself that I was glad that I had finally pierced his armour and let him know what it felt like to be belittled and humiliated – but deep down I was sorry to have done it and already regretting having alienated him further.

Fiercely, I tried to squash those feelings. He already disliked me, if anything – why shouldn't I say what I wanted? There was no point being nice to him, trying to get him to like me; I would never succeed. I may as well match him in his aversion rather than be left sighing over him like a school girl over Orlando Bloom. Not that I liked him, of course! I hated him, I told myself sternly. It would be beyond folly to like a man such as he, with no conscience and no warm emotions that I could discern.

'Run? You think I would run from him?'

I tried not to gulp in fear like they did in cartoons but it was remarkably hard. Kirill reminded me of a hissing cat as his face suddenly crumpled into open fury – gone was his mask and impassive reserve, and I wasn't sure whether to glory in my victory or apologise abjectly.

'As soon as your guard gets here I will find him. And when I do, I will kill him.'

With that, Kirill stood and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Silence fell over the dimly-lit apartment and I sat there in the dark for a long time as night fell over the city, thinking.

Kirill was going to go hunting for this Bourne, the man who had caused him great injury in the past. I wondered if my father would be able to stop him, to order him somewhere else – until I realised that Gretkov was more than likely paying Kirill to go after the person who had helped put him in jail.

I found myself hoping that this time Kirill would be the one to walk away, leaving behind not a battered and bleeding body but a cold and lifeless corpse. And it wasn't because Bourne might be coming after me, the daughter of the man who had tried to have him killed and had also caused the death of his girlfriend.

It was because I had seen something dark and tortured and twisted in Kirill's eyes when he spoke of the American. He wanted revenge, to prove his own worth and stop the self-doubt which I suddenly knew, with crystal clarity, had been preying on his mind ever since. I had nightmares of being helpless at the hands of Lucas – Kirill, I was willing to bet, had similar ones about Bourne. How galling it must have been for such a proud man to be beaten so!

I hoped that Kirill would be the victor – and I refused to ask myself why I wished the outcome would be such. I wasn't quite ready to face that answer.

: - : - :

Kirill shadowed my every step like the guard dog he was. He was no more talkative than he had been in Paris and scarcely any less forbidding, but it was I who was making the decisions for a change. And I decided that I was going to make him pay for how much he annoyed me, no matter how petty that seemed.

It began with a round of shopping at some of the more exclusive boutiques Moscow had to offer. I possessed only the clothes he had bought for me in France and the ones I had abandoned when I left home four years ago, and I decided to give the credit card my father had arranged for me a good work out.

Whether Kirill would have been any use in a crisis remained doubtful – his arms were heavily laden with bags of new clothes and, as he had stubbornly refused to see a doctor, I had no qualms in treating him like a pack mule. We had had a reversal in positions once we'd entered Russia and I was determined to lord it over him.

'Oh, look!' I exclaimed in a falsely surprised tone, peering in through a shop window. 'Fallen Angel lingerie. My very favourite shop!'

I thought gleefully that I detected a hint of horror in Kirill's eyes at that pronouncement – they certainly widened in protest as I sailed straight in through the doors and he had no choice but to follow. A blush would have been too much to hope for but he was definitely uncomfortable, if the stiffness of his back and the set of his jaw were anything to go by. And those eyes of his really glinted when he had them narrowed in annoyance.

Matters were hardly improved – for him, at least – when the very helpful shop assistant assumed that he was my boyfriend, and I made no move to disabuse her of the notion. She directed us into the change rooms, which were decorated in the same black lace and fuck-me-red colour scheme as the rest of the store and, sensing a customer with unlimited funds, devoted herself to finding all the sizes and styles I might possibly need.

I had, by now, realised that although Kirill might not relish the position of bodyguard – especially to me! – he was more than thorough in his attention to the task, and would not allow himself to be so much as one room away from me when we weren't in the apartment. The effect was something like having an extra shadow, and a silently disapproving one at that. His frown had increased with each shop we had visited and each bag I had loaded onto his arms – and we had already had to return to the car twice to stash my purchases in the trunk.

I was tempted to really push my luck and waltz out of the velvet-curtained changing cubical in nothing but the underwear and oh-so-casually ask his opinion, but I was all too aware that that would do nothing to increase my standing in his eyes. Taking pity on him, I was as quick as I could be in selecting my purchases, and there was palpable relief on his part when I announced that I'd had enough and it was time for lunch.

Off to a trendy café we went, where Kirill led me straight to a table in the back part of the store and sat where he could keep an eye on the staff behind the counter and also the street outside. There was no conversation and when our meals arrived Krill only picked over his, as I'd discovered was his custom, and his eyes never stopped taking everything in. I rolled my own and was about to comment that I didn't think I needed to fear assassins over my chicken salad when I saw his eyes narrow and his hand suddenly dive into his coat.

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to look over my shoulder, more than half expecting to see an enormous, muscle-clad man bearing down on me with gun drawn – but instead I saw two young women, both with very familiar looking faces, running towards me as fast as their perilously high heeled shoes would allow.

'_Katya_!'

It was none other than Ira and Lena, two of my very best friends from before I had left home. We had initially kept in contact by email following my move to Paris, but over time our correspondence had become more and more infrequent until it had at last ceased altogether about two years ago. That didn't matter now, however, and I leapt up to return their enthusiastic hugs; it was like coming home to two very large, boisterous puppies.

'When did you get back? How long have you been here? Have you run into anyone else yet?'

That was Ira, babbling away at a hundred questions a minute, practically dancing with excitement. She was a tall brunette, bubbly and cheerful with smiling brown eyes and the lithe body of a serious tennis player.

'Ira, let her breathe! And as if you didn't tell us you'd returned!' Lena said, rolling her enormous blue eyes at me but smiling all the same.

Their colour was startling against the black mascara and eyeliner which she applied liberally. She was the more serious of the pair, although given to melancholia and substance use – or at least, she had been when I'd last known her. I'd always worried she'd end up a heroin addict or something but she had always laughed off such concerns with a wink and a comment about how it was expected of her; after all, she had to find some way to spend her father's immense fortune, amassed through intelligent (and not always legal) play on the stock market.

'I only arrived yesterday,' I said, smiling so hard my face hurt; I was out of practice at the expression. 'I should have known you'd be around here! How are you both? What's been happening?'

They joined me for lunch, of course, and Kirill abandoned his meal to stand against the wall behind my chair in the accepted way. I was soon lost in conversation with the two girls who had been with me all the way through high school, but there was a part of me that remained remote and detached from the conversation.

Somehow shopping, the gossip of Moscow's rich and famous and enthusiastic discussions about what to do now that I was back just couldn't occupy the whole of my mind. I knew it was snobbish but I couldn't help but feel a sudden swoop of disdain for the pair. They had never known what it was to work for their rent and food, to face guns and men intent on using them to deadly effect, to flee for their very lives, and I didn't feel able to tell them about the circumstances under which I had returned home. They certainly would not understand, and I just couldn't face the indignant and sympathetic squeals of shock and horror I knew would follow such a tale.

I realised now that I couldn't go back to the cosseted existence I had once taken for granted, and I shied away from the thought that I might once have been just as blinkered and frivolous as the two girls sitting before me. I smiled and replied and made all the appropriate comments as Ira and Lena prattled on, but my heart wasn't in it. I was conscious of an ever-increasing kernel of worry in the pit of my stomach; what on earth was I going to do with myself now that I was back in Moscow?

* * *

**AN: I have to admit that I get all my Russian names from the credits of the movie... I'm not very inventive. As always, a HUGE thank you to all the lovely people who read and review; you guys make failing uni worth it just so I can write this stuff ;) Now, I know this wasn't the most riveting chapter ever, but the next one is where the fun really starts! *wink wink***


	15. XIV

**Before you get into the chapter, I have to apologise - silly me went on holiday straight after posting the last chapter and didn't realise I'd be left without a way to reply! It was lovely to return home to so many great responses, thank you all! And now, the bit you've been waiting for... enjoy ;)**

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

I was getting sick of having Kirill around. It wasn't anything that he did, exactly, but more what he didn't do – which was act in any way other than that which suggested that he held me in strong contempt. His gaze was sardonic and his tongue, whenever he deigned to open his mouth, was caustic and brief.

My mood was not improved by the arrival of my uncle Sergei on Sunday just after eight in the evening – after he had arranged to meet me at my apartment at ten in the morning to discuss matters. It had taken me several days just to catch the bastard on his mobile phone, and I was not impressed by the way he was treating me like an errant child brought to heel. He hadn't seen me since I was fourteen – did he think to find the same shy, awkward girl with long braids and an anxious smile?

My father had seemed to so urgently want my return to Moscow but I was amazed by how little had happened since I'd arrived. Since meeting Ira and Lena for lunch on Friday I had been shopping with them, had lunch with them and the rest of our old crew, dined with them twice… it was now Sunday, and the last day I would have to put up with Kirill as my bodyguard.

I didn't want to acknowledge it, but it was that thought which had put me in such a bad mood. It was preposterous that I was somehow disappointed that he would not be around any more – he was just so infuriating! But I had come to rely on his silent competence, and I had to admit that I felt safer with him just a step or two behind me at all times. Not that anyone had looked like they wished me harm – with the possible exception of my uncle.

The meeting did not go well. I was grumpy that he was running so late and hadn't even bothered to let me know, and he was annoyed that I had insisted on seeing him at all – he was, he said, very busy trying to hold my father's business together and he had no time to waste on silly girls who suddenly made up their minds to fly home and demand his attention. Or something along those lines, anyway.

I discovered two things in the first couple of minutes of our little chat. The first was that I disliked Sergei quite as much now as I had as a girl, and the second was that my father clearly did not trust him with everything, including the fact that I had been brought back to Moscow against my will. It took me a while to realise that my uncle believed I had come home because I had run out of money in Paris, and now wanted to be given large amounts of cash to resume a fashionable existence of doing nothing at all.

Kirill had positioned himself opposite me, several steps behind Sergei's pompous head, and his sudden meaningful look warned me not to give myself away. I realised then that he had known all along that my uncle wasn't truly in the loop, and that made me even more annoyed. Apparently it had been too much effort to warn me!

My uncle was in his late forties, with shrewd eyes like my father's yet a rather more stocky build matched by a gleaming bald pate. He wasn't as intelligent, that was a fact tacitly accepted by both my father and I, but he had a dangerous, malicious cunning that Gretkov had always kept an eye on. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him, and he seemed to have rather too many grand ideas for someone supposedly only keeping my father's seat warm while he was in jail.

Sergei was in my apartment for exactly twenty-three minutes. In that time he managed to run the full gamut of annoyingness, from patronising and condescending to simpering sympathy for my apparent plight. I'd never before had to work so hard to keep my temper, as I resented being dismissed as an airhead who would content herself with pretty little baubles and stay out of the way. I was stunned by his attitude.

'Is he really that stupid?' I wondered aloud when he had gone, still sitting in my armchair in a state of disbelief.

Kirill shrugged. 'Apparently so.'

That raised another, less pleasant question. Did Sergei treat me so because the Katya he had known had been just that, a self-absorbed young girl with no interest in Pekos beyond the benefits it brought her? I didn't want to think about that one too closely. Surely I couldn't have been so bad as Ira and Lena now seemed to me… I turned on Kirill as the easiest way to dispel my pent-up emotions.

'Thanks a lot for letting me know that your rescue mission was a secret, by the way,' I snapped at the convenient target. 'I really appreciated the warning.'

'I assumed Gretkov had told you.'

'He's in prison, Kirill! He can't exactly shoot me an email giving me the finer points of his arrangement with Sergei and warning me what I should and should not say to him!'

He looked away, out the window, refusing to answer. I thought I might explode with exasperation. Instead I stood and turned to head for my bedroom – but then I stopped in my tracks. Oh, hell – this was my very last day with Kirill. Tomorrow morning my new bodyguard, Alexei, would arrive and Kirill would leave my life as easily as he had entered it. What did I have to lose now by speaking my mind?

'Why do you hate me so much?'

It came out in a rushed jumble of words, nothing like the quiet, unemotional question I had intended. _That_ got his attention – he turned around quickly, and I saw he wore an expression of almost comical surprise. How I wanted to run my fingers over those hollow planes of his face…

'I don't hate you.'

His voice was unsure and he seemed to have been caught off balance. I forged ahead before my courage failed me.

'I thought you despised me.'

'I don't.'

'Then why…' I paused and took a deep breath. 'Why do you just look at me like I'm a fool all the time? Why don't you ever speak to me? And why the _fuck_ can't you even look at me when I'm speaking to you?'

He had glanced away again in that habit of his while I'd been speaking. I hadn't intended to let my anger show but my temper had gotten the better of me – I immediately regretted it and wished I could take the harsh words back. Kirill closed his eyes for a moment, looking like he was struggling with himself.

'You're not a fool,' he said at last, his voice a strangled whisper. '_I _am.'

Well, that was completely unexpected.

'What? Kirill, you're many things and trust me, I could spend all day finding new names to call you – but fool isn't one of them.'

He moved towards me then, so fast that I had only a second in which to feel a sudden stab of fear – after all, I had once believed him to be intent on murdering me or holding me to ransom. I had seen him kill without so much as blinking but somehow that didn't bother me any more.

He was no longer a deranged, cold killer. He was the mysterious man with the unhappy mouth who had stood between me and danger so many times, taking injury without complaint, and I had been lying to myself that I felt no attraction towards him. I wanted him to like me, to want me, and as more than just a casual fling with some girl he never had to see again. I wanted him to call me his own and hold me close with those hands that had so often dealt out death.

Kirill stood before me, so close I had to tip my head back a little to meet his eyes. I hardly dared to breathe but his scent was filling my nostrils and I couldn't stop myself inhaling – it was masculine but impossible to define, and it made me want to lean in closer and bury my face in his black shirt where it stretched taut across his broad chest.

'Katya…'

He breathed my name and seemed at a loss as to what to say next. My heart was pounding beneath the v-necked top and jacket I wore and I didn't seem able to form a coherent thought. I couldn't reconcile this suddenly hesitant person before me with the decisive hit man who had brought me safely from Paris back to Moscow.

He had enraged me so many times, in so many different ways – I'd never seemed able to get the better of him in any of our exchanges. His steady, derisive gaze had a way of making me squirm even when I knew that I wasn't really doing anything wrong, and getting him to talk to me was like pulling teeth.

Yet now he stood before me, searching for something to say, a very disquieting look in his eyes as they bored down into mine. I wondered what would happen if I stepped forward just a little, if I put my hand over his heart – would it be beating as hard as mine? Would he let me slide my fingers beneath the hem of his top to run them over the hard planes of his muscled torso? What would he do if I raised myself up on the tips of my toes and pressed my lips to his?

'I hate you,' I murmured, barely aware of what I was saying, still staring up at him. 'I can't stand you.'

And suddenly he smiled. It was the first time I had ever seen his teeth gleam white against his olive-skinned face and the frame of his black, closely-cropped facial hair. It made him no less threatening; he was a grinning wolf.

'I can't wait to get away from you,' he replied, his voice as soft as mine. 'I want you out of my life and out of my head.'

I glared, too angry to feel the sting of his words and further incensed that he seemed to be laughing at me. I was just forming my retort when he took pre-emptive action. He reached out, crushed me to his hard, lean body, and kissed me ruthlessly.

* * *

**AN: So... what do you think? :P Very short but I wanted to break here because the next chapter will be the reason behind the "M" rating, and I wanted to give a warning for anyone who will be offended by such stuff! (Not that it's all that explicit, but still...) Anyway, the next chapter just needs to be proof-read but after that I have nothing already written... and updates could slow down thanks to my uni work :( Anyway, thank you SO MUCH for reading!**


	16. XV

**WARNING. This chapter is the long-awaited sex scene between Katya and Kirill - and probably the only one in the story. This is the reason for the M rating, and anyone who doesn't want all the gorey details should skip down to the end and read the last 6 paragraphs; those are about the only ones with any relation to the plot and not Kirill's beautiful body ;)**

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Half outraged, half exulting, I gave a feeble noise of protest and pushed against his chest. He tightened his grip and I abandoned my pretensions, surrendering instead to his kiss – it was almost too good to be true. He wanted me, he wanted me!

Emboldened by that knowledge I returned his embrace, pulling him even closer and relishing in the feel of his lean, hard body against mine. His tongue demanded entrance and with a whimper of pleasure I acquiesced, my knees nearly melting as he deepened the kiss.

We staggered back, unwilling to let go of each other, and I came up hard against the wall of the lounge room. He pressed into me and I gasped at the contact, suddenly aware of how long it had been since I'd last been with a man – half a year at least. No wonder I could hardly control myself as I dragged at Kirill's shirt. He broke the kiss to pull it over his head and throw it away, his dark eyes blazing; where was his stern self-control, his steely silence? He seemed a different man, like a dog who had been straining at his leash suddenly set free.

He lowered his mouth to just underneath my jaw, trailing his tongue lightly over the skin, and I forgot about thinking for a while as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my neck. He sucked at the skin and my nails scraped down his back, eliciting a groan in response – a deep and guttural sound.

His hands dived beneath my shirt and I wormed out of my jacket, reluctant to release my grip on him lest he should somehow disappear and I would wake to find it all a dream – but then he was lifting my shirt off and clasping me against his chest, working furiously to undo my bra (thank God I was wearing one of my lovely recent purchases from Fallen Angel lingerie).

The lace garment fell away and once again I was crushed against the wall, his mouth returning to mine. His hands were everywhere – roaming up and down the sides of my body in maddening pattern, brushing past the areas to which I most wanted him to attend. I squirmed beneath his weight, slowly being driven mad by his teasing, cursing him beneath my breath. Did I hate him or love him? I couldn't decide as he watched my face hungrily, clearly enjoying the sight of me helpless and desperate between him and the wall.

Finally he obliged and did what I had been wanting all along, grasping me with one calloused hand hard enough to leave bruised imprints of his fingers. I gasped, my eyes sliding shut as I enjoyed the strange sensation of pleasure unifying with pain, and he recaptured my mouth in a rough kiss as if to prove his point. I thought I heard him whisper _mine_ as he did so but my blood was pounding and I was having trouble concentrating on anything other than what Kirill was now doing with his mouth.

I forced myself to keep breathing and, almost laughing with the ecstasy that was his desire for me, brought a hand up to cup the back of his head so I could run my fingers through his soft black hair. I could hardly able to believe that this was really happening as his tongue rasped against my skin. I whimpered when he used his teeth and he seemed to like the sound.

Far too soon, however, he straightened up to kiss me again and I had my chance to tease him as he'd been teasing me. I rubbed my hand against the front of his jeans and was rewarded with a quiver throughout the rest of his body. Fumbling with the front of his jeans, I managed to unzip them as his lips again devoured my own. His involuntary noise of pleasure as I rubbed him through only the thin fabric of his boxers made me burn with the need for him. I wanted to hear him make that noise again and again – I liked having that power.

He picked me up then, so suddenly that I squeaked in surprise. His dark eyes bored into mine, transfixing me with their intensity as he carried me into my darkened room and we fell down upon the bed in a tangle of limbs. His breath was coming just as fast as mine, rasping in his throat, and he growled in frustration as he struggled unsuccessfully with the front of my jeans.

I pushed his hand aside, did his work for him and let him tear them from my long legs in a single movement. Then he was on top of me, my head on the corner of a pillow, my legs wrapped around his waist as his lips sought and recaptured mine. I was still marvelling at the strength of him, of the hard muscle that moved so smoothly beneath the skin marred here and there with scars. I traced a particularly bad one all the way from the back of his neck down to his left hip bone and shuddered as one of his hands moved slowly, caressingly, down my body.

He stroked the inside of one of my thighs, his fingers mere inches away from where I wanted him most. I writhed beneath him and he smiled down at me in the darkness, his beautiful face so close to mine, his expression a mix of hunger and triumph and tenderness.

His eyes never left my own as he moved his hand closer, with excruciating slowness, until finally he was rubbing against me in just the right place through the (unnecessary, I thought) fabric of my panties. My legs spread a little further of their own accord and I gasped, too consumed with need to feel embarrassed at my blatant reaction. He seemed to enjoy having me at his mercy and he continued to tease me through my clothing until I moaned and spoke in a strangled whisper.

'Fuck's sakes, Kirill…!'

He smiled again and, his gaze still holding mine, pulled my last remaining piece of clothing from my body. Then I nearly cried out as his fingers returned, sliding across my skin in the wetness that was the evidence of my arousal, stroking me in a way that made my back arch up against him. I reached for him and returned the favour, rewarded by a gasp and his mouth crashed down on mine again as he slid one finger deep inside me.

My moan was muffled by his lips and I bucked against him, lost in the sensation but needing more. I had no idea how long we continued like this – it could have been hours or minutes or even just seconds. Eventually he withdrew his hand – I protested wordlessly – and started to pull off his open jeans and underwear.

I took the opportunity to reverse our positions, startling him perhaps with my swift attack. I drew off his remaining clothes and threw them aside before straddling him and kissing him hard. He gripped my waist, moving against me, a low growl in his throat when I broke the contact and moved down his body.

I took his length in my mouth – with some difficulty, I might add; he wasn't small – and with my lips covering my teeth to avoid hurting him. I was rewarded in my ministrations by a groan of utter desperation and want, and one of his hands buried itself in my long blonde-brown hair which had come loose sometime earlier.

Stealing a look at his face in the barely lit darkness before I returned to the task at hand, I thought that I would never forget the expression of glazed pleasure he wore as he watched me; it was utterly at odds with everything I knew about the man.

'Stop,' he gasped after a couple of minutes as I began to speed up. 'I can't… Katya… stop!'

I did so, and he moved suddenly to roll us over so that he lay pressed against the length of my body. One of his strong, lean forearms cradled my head, his fingers intertwined in my hair, and he stared down into my eyes as he finally entered me.

I cried out involuntarily and wrapped my legs tightly around him as I revelled in the feeling of completeness. I had wanted this for so long and now he was moving inside me, slowly at first, his spare hand creeping down to rub me right where I wanted him to. I reached up to his lips and he kissed me hungrily, all the while increasing his rhythm as I moved against him.

He pressed his cheek against my own as we held each other close, seeking that fleeting moment of perfection and glorying in the feel of the other's skin. My world exploded in a burst of bright lights behind my eyelids and a tidal wave that swept my entire body, leaving me limp and utterly sated.

Kirill's hoarse moan into my ear a few seconds earlier and the knowledge of his pleasure had pushed me over the edge and I lay gasping on my side as he collapsed beside me, as exhausted as I. Almost before I had time to ruin the moment by worrying about his reaction – I wouldn't really have been surprised had he stood up and walked away without so much as looking back – his heavy arm was thrown over my waist and he pulled me tight against his body, his chest to my back. I smiled in utter contentment as he pulled the covers over us and nestled against me, raising himself up for a second only to press the ghost of a kiss against my forehead.

I smiled sleepily but my voice was almost sad. 'Kirill…'

There was so much I wanted to say but never could… the words danced on the tip of my tongue but I kept my lips firmly closed. _Stay with me. Don't go after Bourne. I think I love you_. _What do you feel for me?_

'Hush,' he murmured. 'Go to sleep, Katya.'

He said my name like it was an endearment and I sighed, letting the worrisome thoughts slip from my mind. I had never felt so peaceful, so safe, so content as I did falling asleep in the arms of a hired killer that night, and I wished that I could make it last forever. Sleep soon claimed me, though, and I slept without dreaming or moving.

I awoke early the next morning to find Kirill's scent all around me, on my pillow, my sheets, in my hair – but I was alone in the bed and the apartment was deathly silent.

He was gone.

* * *

**AN: I'm pretty embarrassed that I even wrote that... Anyway, I hope it lived up to expectations! Thanks for sticking with the story, guys :)**


	17. XVI

The apartment was empty. It was only then that I realised how long it was since I had last been truly alone; the silence hung heavy in the air and echoed uncomfortably in my ears. I lurched from room to room, throwing back the doors in an urgent frenzy even though I knew I would find no trace of Kirill remaining.

I found myself in the kitchen, of all places, as if I would find him hiding amongst the pots and pans. The jars on the marble counter went flying as I swept them aside in one violent movement; the crash was satisfying, and I wondered if it might ease my pain to follow suit with everything I could lay my hands on. An ornamental fruit bowl beckoned.

I showered instead, turning the taps until the water was scalding. I lost track of time there, standing on the tiles as the water sluiced down my body, wiping away the last traces of his touch along with my tears.

So he wanted to forget. To leave me behind, a mess he did not want to have to untangle – why stay and face me when he could simply leave and start afresh somewhere else? He wasn't coming back, that was simply not his style, and I had learnt by now that he was as proud as he was stubborn. He had walked away and he would not return.

There was no way to control my crying. Mine were the hard, gut-wrenching spasms of one who had let something precious slip irrevocably from their grasp. The chance was gone, and I knew it – my dreams dashed even as they seemed to have been realised. But I would not pity myself, of that I was determined.

Through a glaze of tears I stared at my reflection in the mirror opposite, barely visible through the condensation on the shower's glass walls. A hateful being glared back, her ravaged face twisted into the fury of that proverbially scorned woman.

Kirill would be disappointed if he expected me to chase him. I would not call his phone, I would not ask my father or Keshav or any other person for news of him… I would shut him out of my heart and mind as fully as he had done with me. Two could play at that game.

I could not love him. What else could I do but hate him?

: - : - :

I emerged from my bedroom some time later to find my new bodyguard had arrived. He was busy cleaning shards of glass and an interesting mixture of instant coffee, sugar, salt and assorted spices from the kitchen floor, so I had time to study him unawares.

My first reaction was one of disbelief, followed quickly by amusement. The boy – he could be described in no other way – scrabbling around on his hands and knees looked to be scarcely out of the school room. He reminded me of nothing so much as a golden Labrador puppy, all big feet and clumsy, youthful exuberance. Blonde hair fell forward onto an earnest, eager face, marked by a pair of beautiful blue eyes currently focused downward at the dust pan and brush he was wielding with a distinct lack of coordination.

This was the man sent by my father to protect me? He didn't look old enough to be able to buy liquor, let alone handle a gun and stay calm under pressure. There was no comparison to _him_, the one whose name I could hardly even bear to think.

Alexei – or so I assumed him to be – seemed to realise he was no longer alone in the room and his head snapped up to meet my gaze. I felt myself being clinically assessed as his eyes swept me up and down, impersonal in their attention. He was somehow much more imposing when he was still, even down on all fours as he was. I was reminded of that moment before a cat pounces, when it holds itself perfectly still in perfect readiness.

I found myself beginning to back-pedal on my earlier assessment.

Then a small, bashful smile edged across his face and the tension eased out of his body. The puppy dog was back, wagging its tail and everything.

'Hi. I'm Alexei.'

His voice was soft, hesitant, and I didn't reply. I was on edge and it made me cruel – I understood, for the first time, how it was that someone could kick out at an unoffending animal simply because it was there.

Alexei appeared to wilt as the silence stretched on. Blood rose to his cheeks and he stammered slightly when he spoke.

'S-sorry, I knocked b-but there was no answer and Kirill gave me the key this morning and I knew you had been here without a guard so I thought I should come in and check everything was okay, but you were in the shower so I thought I'd clean up-'

The words had rattled out like machine gun bullets, almost without pause so that I was growing breathless just listening to him. My conscience was already hard at work making me regret my rudeness and I heaved a sigh. I didn't want to like this boy. It would have been so much easier if he had been the silent type, or maybe rude and obnoxious and easily dealt with. And I certainly didn't want to think about _him_ or the fact that he had probably met with Alexei fresh from my bed. The idea stung like salt in a wound.

'Whoa, boy, take a breath before you asphyxiate,' I said wearily, slumping back into an armchair.

He was still kneeling awkwardly on the floor, clearly at a loss, either too scared to open his mouth or too unsure of what to say. I couldn't blame the poor kid. I waved for him to stand up.

'The housekeeper will take care of that.'

He arose, uncertainly, but without resentment. It was strange to find myself in the role of master after the assurance and confidence of Kirill and I directed Alexei to sit down in the chair opposite. He was still holding the dustpan.

He was a big lad, taller than me, although perhaps not so young as I had first supposed. I thought, too, that I had caught a glimpse of steel earlier when he had first become aware of my presence. He was certainly an interesting package. I leant forward to begin my interrogation.

'Where did my father recruit you from?'

'The FSB, miss. Most of my training had been under Kirill and he approached me with an offer from Gretkov.'

There was something about the way Alexei had said Kirill's name – it had been reverent, almost caressing. Hero worship. Well, that was just fantastic.

'I see,' I replied, probably a couple of seconds too late. 'And call me Katya. Are you gonna be loyal?'

Such bluntness was foreign to me but I was not in the mood for tiptoeing around. The question seemed to surprise Alexei but he answered automatically.

'Yes.'

'To whom?'

He frowned slightly, sensing the trick question. 'To you.'

'Not my father?'

'Well, yes, him as well,' Alexei floundered. 'I mean-'

I took pity on him. 'That I come first?'

He nodded, looking vastly relieved. I had to smile faintly as I leant back in my seat. No, my father hadn't chosen so badly after all. I had a feeling that I could trust this one. He was looking at me like he wasn't sure whether I would bite or scratch his tummy. I shook my head – I really had to stop with the puppy analogy. It would be embarrassing if I started whistling to him and telling him to heel.

'Come on,' I said suddenly, bound to my feet. 'I know what'll make me feel better. Breakfast.'

Alexei carefully ignored part of what I'd said as he rose too. 'But it's nearly two O'clock.'

Oh. I wondered briefly how long I had been in the shower for. Ah well, Gretkov was paying the bills, including that for water usage.

'Lunch, then. Whatever you want to call it, the object is the same – food. Preferably in my stomach. Let's go.'

I was talking too fast and somehow my arms and legs didn't seem to be properly attached – walking felt strange and unnatural. I hoped Alexei didn't think I was on drugs as I almost staggered out of my apartment, him a few steps behind. Housekeeping would be in within a couple of hours and by nightfall everything would be clean, from the floor to the sheets on my bed. No trace would remain of what had taken place the night before and that was how I wanted it. Or so I told myself, anyway.

* * *

**AN: Surprised to see an update? Yeah, me too. A thousand pardons for the wait, and a huge thank you to everyone who has encouraged me to get back to writing... you know who you are :) **


	18. XVII

Chapter Seventeen

Kirill was gone, and not just in the literal sense. I had gone through every part of the house and erased every trace that he had ever been there. The cereal he had always eaten for breakfast had been thrown into the bin, followed by any forgotten personal items whether it was a shirt or a bar of soap. After I had erased him from my apartment I set about erasing him from my mind.

It was just as hard as it sounds. I could direct my thoughts elsewhere whenever they strayed towards him but it was like he was standing just to the edge of stage, waiting for his cue to re-enter; and that could be anything from Alexei mentioning his name to me seeing an article in the paper I knew he would find interesting and thinking that I must show it to him.

Sometimes, usually late at night when I tossed and turned and couldn't get comfortable in bed, I gave in to the temptation and analysed every word we had said to each other over and over and over. _I can't wait to get away from you_, he'd said. _I want you out of my life and out of my head. _Clearly sleeping with me had been his method of choice to achieve that goal.

I had a terrible addiction to reopening the pain. It was like tearing the scab off a half-healed wound so I could watch the blood well up, satisfying is some morbid way that I couldn't quite explain even to myself. And the damage I did to myself in those long silent hours went beyond anything I had ever done to my flesh as a teenager.

I cried often, in that ugly, gut-wrenching way that stretched my features into a rictus of agony with a gaping mouth and one word always on my lips - _why_? In my imagination we had many encounters, he and I; sometimes he answered my question with explanations, each as reasonable as the other, and sometimes he just looked at me in that unsmiling way of his with those dark eyes that said _don't think you know me. You don't, and you never will_.

I berated myself for the fool that I had been, willfully blind as to the inevitable conclusion of our actions that night. I could see it all - how he eased himself out of my bed being careful not to wake me, how he dressed and gathered his possessions in an agony of fear that I might wake.

And after I had reopened every wound I could find my conclusion was always the same - he had left because he wanted to. Whether he had gone reluctantly to find Bourne or eager to get away from me was no longer relevant, and I was damned if I was going to waste my time remembering he who had run away.

That was what I told myself, anyway. And maybe if I told myself a few more times I would actually start to believe it.

: - : - :

Things were not going well for me. It wasn't enough that my half-hated but secretly adored body guard had bedded me and then fled during the night, oh no. I also had my father's scheming half-brother to contend with who was salivating at the prospect of getting his greedy little paws on what remained of my father's wealth and company. And then there was Pavel Koretsky, the disgruntled oil magnate who wanted our rights to the Caspian Sea and was furious that my father refused to relinquish them. It was my worst nightmare that Koretsky and my uncle Sergei might reach an accord - apart from the nightmare where Kirill laughed to himself about what an easy lay I'd been, of course.

There had been an unexpected silver lining to the thundercloud that was Kirill's departure, however, and it had come in the form of Alexei. I had fully expected to hate the young man who had taken on the role of my bodyguard, but it was almost impossible to do so.

He was a shy, bashful twenty-two year old with a shock of blonde hair and gentle blue eyes, and his smile could always make me smile in response. He was quiet and unassuming, but his air of almost innocent fragility could disappear in an instant. When he froze, on high alert like a snake poised to strike, I found myself holding my breath and extremely grateful for the fact that he was on my side. I was yet to see him act but instinct told me that, despite his puppy-like demeanour and boyish exterior, there was about as much give in him as there was in granite.

In the space of a few days he had become as much of a friend as he was an employee. We shared similar taste in movies (action, mostly, although he had a oft spot for chick flicks which he would rather die than admit), and we wasted many an hour together on his latest model Playstation. It was like having a little brother and if I would have been having the time of my life were I not so sick at heart.

: - : - :

I received a phone call very late one night from my father, about a week after Kirill had left. It was the first contact we had had in years, apart from the note that had been awaiting my arrival at my new apartment in Moscow. He was exactly as I remembered - terse, to the point and unemotional. He wasted no time in discussing such trivialities as my forced return to Moscow or my state of health; he had only limited time in which to speak, he said, and so it was important that I listened closely.

Listen closely I did, but I was still somewhat lost in the intricacies he traced out for me in a few brief sentences. It was as I had suspected - my uncle was making a concerted bid for power and already many of those whom my father had placed close to him to be his eyes and ears on Sergei had been turned with promises of wealth and power.

Sergei, in his role as company director for Pekos in my father's absence, had been transferring contracts and property to his own company. He already had a buyer lined up for Pekos, apparently, but the company would be little more than a shadow of its former self by the time it was sold; Sergei would have stripped everything worth having from Pekos and then pocketed the sale price of the empty shell that had once been my father's empire.

'Kill him, then,' was my irritable reply when my father paused to draw breath.

It was galling that my father, after a childhood of telling me to play with my dolls and leave men's business to men, was suddenly demanding a miracle of me. What exactly did he expect me to do? I had not been brought up with the intention of one day taking over the running of Pekos. There hd been the assumption that I would one day inherit it, as his only child, but there had been an implication that I should find myself a husband amongst the eligible bachelors of other oil dynasties and solve the problem that way; or perhaps leave the management in the hands of one of Gretkov's few trusted agents in the event of his death.

'Not possible at this time,' was Gretkov's impatient reply. 'Certain contracts need to be restored to Pekos before Sergei can be eliminated. The company cannot become solvent again without them, and until that time Sergei must remain alive. The financial future of Pekos must be assured before he is dealt with.'

'And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about all of this? The man clearly regards me as a bird-witted child.'

'Your role is to make sure that no one else defects, and if possible to regain the loyalty of those who already have. I have compiled a list of people on both sides who I cannot be sure of, and you must meet them and offer whatever it takes. A pay rise, shares in the company, property, assets... Move to blackmail if that doesn't work. Children are the best leverage in such a situation.'

I snorted. 'As I well know, _father_.'

He ignored my jibe. 'I must go. The documents will be with you shortly.'

And with that the phone line had gone dead. Charming. At least Kirill's actions had put me in such a mood that I would have no trouble resorting to blackmail if needed. In fact, I thought as a grim smile twisted my lips, this could actually be fun. Let the games begin.

Thank you to all my lovely readers who have stuck with me - but especially for Schnurble who reminded me of this story's existence and said such lovely things :) (This chapter would've come a bit sooner if not for a computer meltdown! It creeped me out no end when they told me they'd opened it up to discover a spider's nest along with a damaged video card...) I'm afraid Katya's troubles came second to my own for a while there but I have escaped a train wreck of an engagement and finally have the stomach to even contemplate romance again, albeit only with fictional characters :P Thanks for reading. More to come very shortly - yes, really!


	19. XVIII

'Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck do you think you're doing?' the man snarled as Alexei bundled him into the soft leather back seat of my Mercedes.

My body guard slid in beside him and shut the door against the bitter chill of the night air. I glanced over my shoulder and smiled, amused at the righteous indignation - the guy was fairly quivering with it, or perhaps it was simply fear. The car was in darkness but light from a street lamp filtered through the tinted window, enough for me to see the pulse jumping at the base of his throat.

A day or two's growth gave shading to a fine jaw line and square chin. His features were pleasing and symmetrical: a straight nose with flaring nostrils, mobile brows, a pair of dark eyes, skin and black hair largely untouched by time. He was the very picture of crisp, efficient professionalism in his well-tailored (and obviously expensive) suit and coat.

'Anatoly Derzhavin. Thirty-nine years old, married twice, two sons with current wife - twins, aren't they? Very cute boys but quite the troublemakers in class, I hear.'

I watched the colour drain from Anatoly's cheeks, his skin turning a delicate shade of alabaster beneath the dark stubble. I turned to face the front again, repressing a satisfied smile; I'd gotten an even better reaction than I had hoped. This one would be easy.

'Who are you?' he breathed, in a very different tone of voice this time.

'I've been hearing some very disturbing reports, Anatoly, and so I've taken a look at your banking records. Those large deposits of cash every fortnight for the past two months - they look awfully like bribes, wouldn't you agree?' I kept my voice light but I was observing him carefully from the corner of my eye. 'The question must then be asked as to where, or rather whom, the money comes from. And then, when one considers the fact that you were seen having lunch with a certain Sergei Konnikov only a few days before the first deposit was made... Well, that paints a rather damning picture, I'm afraid.'

I had to fend off another smile at the incoherent spluttering and stammering that was emanating from the back seat. This was the fourteenth man on the list my father had sent me of people in need of some gentle persuasion and I had to admit that I was rather enjoying myself. Once I would have been horrified to think of myself resorting to blackmail but in my current mood (that is, exceedingly bitter over Kirill) it was a great distraction and no small source of entertainment.

So far I had only had two men and one woman offer serious resistance, and in those cases Alexei had been more than capable of providing a little extra encouragement. Those had been people higher ranked than this Anatoly, however, who appeared to be rather lacking in the spine department despite the image he presented to the world.

He was fairly minor in the company but my father's orders had been to weed out disloyalty from the directors down to the cleaners. I was halfway through the list and so far had encountered no insurmountable opposition. I liked to think that my father would be proud of my new-found ruthlessness. And had I not been so angry over other matters I would have been horrified to find myself seeking Gretkov's approval, something I had sworn I would never do.

'Sergei said it was fine,' Anatoly gasped, finding his tongue at last and beginning to babble. 'I swear. I wouldn't have done it otherwise. He said Koretsky was the future of the company and should be made fully aware of every circumstance. I did nothing I wasn't supposed to, you have to believe me, I-'

My heart rate had doubled at one word: _Koretsky_. Pavel Koretsky. Oil magnate, rival of my father's, desperate for the drilling rights to the Caspian Sea - and, I had since learned, the one who had sent Lucas to assassinate me in Paris. This was the first evidence suggesting that my worst fear was in fact a reality - Sergei and Koretsky were working together.

I was careful to give no sign to Anatoly that he had betrayed far more than he realised. Alexei was exceedingly observant, both by nature and training, and I knew he would notice the minute signal that was me raising my left hand to touch the diamond drop on my earlobe, looking for all the world as if I were checking it was still held securely in place.

We had developed a series of such signals over the course of the past week as we had gone about our clandestine work, with meanings ranging from _threaten with body language_ to _reassure and befriend_. This particular signal had a rough translation of _bombshell has just been dropped; _also known as _holy fucking fuck this is bad_. It was the first time we'd had to use it and I suddenly wished that I hadn't eaten so much sushi for dinner - I felt positively nauseous at the realisation that the threat we faced was much greater than first anticipated.

And no matter how much I liked Alexei I knew that I would feel so much safer with Kirill's taciturn presence beside me. But that was a thought I couldn't allow myself to think.

I had absolutely no idea what to do and it was not a good feeling. My driver, Keshav, touched my forearm to gain my attention - he was leaning across and I bent towards him so he could whisper in my ear.

'We should take him in,' he whispered.

I nodded, hoping I looked like I knew what he was talking about (I didn't really), and a second later we were pulling away from the kerb and flying through the back streets of Moscow.

'Where are we going?' Anatoly asked, his voice betraying barely-controlled panic. 'I need to go home, my children-'

'You will come with us,' Alexei said, in a voice that brooked no argument. 'We will return you to your residence when you have told us all we need to know. Now, I'll be needing your mobile phone, if you please.'

I looked back and saw Anatoly complying with the request, his face drawn with lines of anguish and anxiety. I couldn't help but sympathise - I felt about as worried as he looked.

: - : - :

Keshav took us to one of the less reputable areas of Moscow, to a large industrial estate that appeared abandoned apart from the well-maintained security system on the perimeter. He navigated a warren of dilapidated warehouses, rusting cargo containers and abandoned machinery until he reached a building that resembled nothing so much as a hangar designed to house aircraft. The doors opened and we drove in; they shut ominously behind us.

Anatoly had become more and more agitated throughout the drive, fidgeting in his seat and often speaking to protest or plead. Now he gasped and shrank back as several men approached the stationary car.

'Don't let them hurt me,' he whispered. 'Oh God, please, let me go home to my family...'

I felt like the most worthless sort of human being alive. This was the kind of terror I would have faced had not Kirill been there in Paris to spirit me away unharmed. Still, I could not risk everything over sentimentality, no matter how much I wished to reassure the poor man and take him back to his sons and wife.

I stepped out of the warm Mercedes into the frigid air and drafts of the enormous, poorly lit hangar. The slamming car doors and weak protests from Anatoly echoed from the cavernous roof and far-off walls. The men were silent as they went about their task with clinical efficiency. Anatoly had his hands tied behind his back, a sack put over his head and was half-marched, half-dragged to a chair in the middle of the hangar. There he was placed and there he remained, a very forlorn figure in the half-light.

'Perhaps we should go, Miss,' Keshav said to me, very quietly. 'You may not wish to see this.'

I glanced up into my driver's face, noting anew the fine lines around his dark eyes and on his forehead. He was not young, he had two teenage daughters of whom I had seen photos - they were very beautiful and very headstrong, and sometimes he extended his fatherly instincts towards me as well. Now was one of those times. His gaze pleaded with words he couldn't utter.

I shook my head. 'Not yet. Not until it gets bad.'

He nodded and looked away, and I thought that perhaps he was relieved that I had not asked how far these men would go. I had been sheltered from the dirty realities of my father's business dealings as a child, but child I was no longer, and such questions betrayed a naivety I no longer possessed.

I had brought this man here and I would see him leave, in one piece if possible, no matter what I had just told Keshav. And if not... I felt sick, and knew that the fact that I would take financial care of Anatoly's family if he died was only a paltry offering to appease my conscience. My breath rose in clouds before me like my prayers to whatever gods might or might not have existed. Let Anatoly tell the truth, and let these men be satisfied; Gretkov's daughter I was, but I knew I held limited power here in this dark corner of Moscow. I was not the only one with vested interest in the survival of Pekos and there were others that these men could choose to take orders from if they did not like what I had to say.

They began their work. There were three of them, big burly figures in dark clothing with nondescript features. They could have been anyone at all. How many thousands of people had they met or passed in the street, who had looked into their faces never guessing what these people did in the small hours of the night? It was a bleak reminder that no one is ever what they seem on the surface.

They surrounded Anatoly and the questions began to fly, thick and fast, coming from all around him so that he had no time to think before he answered. He hesitated too long on one and received a blow to the stomach, delivered so nonchalantly by one of the strange men. He doubled over and fell from the chair with a cry, was lifted back up, and the questions began again.

The early topics were all easy - the men wanted to know about his position in Pekos, his family, his life. Then the questions became harder, moving towards what was really of interest; Sergei, and Koretsky. His interaction with each, what he knew of the dealings between the two, what he had been doing for them that had been rewarded with money.

How long this sick game lasted I couldn't have said - I watched with a kind of horrified fascination that was oblivious to the passage of time, but every limb I possessed was aching with cold and weariness from standing. And I realised that I hadn't known what a big fish I had netted in Anatoly, the poor fool who was completely out of his depth and had been unaware that what he knew was dangerous for him.

That raised the uncomfortable question of whether I had done a seriously substandard job in vetting the previous people on my father's list, to have not discovered a link between Sergei and Koretsky before now. I mentally reviewed each of the men and women I had spoken to and wanted to believe that they had told the truth, that they had not succeeded in hiding such an important piece of information from me - but how much of that was simply unwillingness to admit I had been outsmarted? A galling thought, and it made me feel cold with doubt and fear.

What I learned as the night progressed made me grow colder still. A picture was slowly emerging here, an awful painting where Koretsky stood poised to acquire what remained of Pekos and its drilling rights in partnership with Sergei's company. The two men were waiting for one event which would signal the beginning of the last phase of their plan.

By this time Anatoly had blood spattered down his previously pristine white shirt, his navy suit, and it was staining the brown hessian of the sack over his head. He was slurring his words and only the meaty paws of one of the men on his shoulders held him upright on his chair. The question was asked: _what are they waiting for_? And his answer was a groan and a shake of his head.

There was the sick, muffled thump of fist hitting flesh and I closed my eyes, horrified - at myself, at the situation, at what was being done to this poor man.

'What are they waiting for?' The voice was so impersonal, so uninterested, as if he were inquiring as to the state of the weather outside.

'Gretkov,' Anatoly moaned. 'He must die.'

Yet another icy wave of fear washed down my spine and somehow my limbs unfroze. I staggered forward on legs that had grown stiff and ignored the surprised looks of the three men. Alexei was only a step behind me.

I pulled the sack from Anatoly's face and sucked in a breath at the sight of his ruined face. Gone was his straight nose and elegant cheekbones, the air of suave worldliness. His eyes were puffy, blackened slits, his mouth a mess of blood and broken teeth, his lips were split and raw. He focused on me as best he could, blinking at the change in light, and I bent down so we were almost nose-to-nose.

'How?' I said, my voice very low.

'I don't know,' he whispered, blood bubbling on his lips with every breath. 'Please...'

'When?'

'I don't know. Don't know.'

I stared down into his eyes and hated myself for what I had done here. We had everything from him, or near enough anyway. I nodded and stepped back, looking around at the nameless men and their impassive faces.

'We should kill him,' one said with what I thought was incredible disinterest.

'No,' I said, unable to bear the look that had entered what remained of Anatoly's face. 'Take him back to his family. He will leave the country; he will never speak of this to anyone. He knows his sons' lives will be forfeit if he does.'

The men looked at one another and shrugged - I could almost feel Alexei bristling behind me, like a dog with its hackles up and teeth bared. I turned away so I wouldn't have to look at the damage done to another person for my sake, for my father's sake, but Anatoly spoke again.

'Bourne,' he said.

I very slowly turned back to face him. 'What did you say?'

'Bourne.' His speech was so affected I couldn't be quite sure of what I was hearing. 'He's not here. Was never here.'

'The American?' _Kirill_, I thought. Was he chasing a ghost? Or worse, running head-first into a trap?

'He's not coming, if he exists at all. And that's everything I know, I swear. On my boys' lives. Please.'

'Take him home. And every single person in Pekos needs to be questioned, whether I have already spoken to them or not. Do whatever it takes to find out more about the link between Sergei and Koretsky.'

The men obeyed with alacrity, two taking hold of Anatoly and carrying him towards their own car hidden in a shadowy corner of the hangar, the third withdrawing his mobile phone to relay my orders. I turned to Alexei and found my mouth was terribly dry.

'Tell me you have a way to contact him,' I rasped.

'Kirill?' he said, his blue eyes anxious - I nodded. 'I have a number, but I don't know... He usually has his phone off.'

'Call it. Now.' I stalked back towards the car, the two men right behind me. 'I need to find him.'

And when I did there was a very good chance that I was going to kill him - but I would be damned if I let Sergei or Koretsky get to him before I did.

Thank you so, so much to everyone who has reviewed, you guys have made my week :) The next chapter will be in Kirill's POV (with thanks to the lovely CallowWanderlust who gave me the idea for it) and will see him and Katya reunited.

I finally got around to watching the Bourne Legacy a couple of days ago and have to say I was... Well... Disappointed. Ah well. Maybe it'll grow on me.

Thanks, as always, for reading. More to come very soon!


	20. XIX

Sorry for the long chapter ahead... It's all from Kirill's POV if that makes it any better ;)

: - : - :

There is a line in Abert Camus' _'The Outsider_' which has never quite faded from my memory. I had read it first as a naive and impressionable nineteen year old in his first year at Moscow State University, dreaming of making a difference and changing the course of the world; _No, there was no way out, and no one can imagine what the evenings are like in prison._

So often that line has come unbidden to my mind as the minutes creep by and the day departs. The prison was usually my own mind rather than locked gates and guards on the door - but the one is just as terrible as the other. And both combined...

Seventy-six hours since I had last slept and I'd rediscovered a different kind of prison, one of aching eyes and blurry vision and a torturous delirium barely evaded that was only one step short of dreaming. I was running on an uneasy mix of willpower and anti-sleep drugs, obsessing over Jason Bourne as much from a desire to keep my thoughts from wandering elsewhere as from a need for closure.

I was, if I was being honest in my assessment of myself, on the verge of falling to pieces - and all over a woman. Specifically Katya, and God only knew how it had happened. She was infuriating, a liability and a damned inconvenience... And she just wouldn't get out of my fucking head. I could push her aside, force her to the wings but she would not leave - she waited only for her cue to re-enter the stage.

Sometimes I thought I loved her; more often I decided I hated her. Are the two really so different? They were certainly both all-consuming.

Guilt was an unfamiliar emotion to me - not that I was prone to self-analysis, for I would have gone mad long ago if that were the case. A year in the FSB had all but cured me of that weakness, at least until I had had to ease myself from the warm tangle of Katya's limbs as she slept and walk away from all that she was to me.

'I had to leave,' I found myself muttering. 'I had to. Had to...'

A yawn fairly cracked my skull in half and I shook my head in a useless attempt at clearing my sleep-deprived mind. I knew only too well what the outcome would have been had I stayed. There had been others before Katya - friends, lovers, even a girl I once thought I would marry... I'd learnt my lesson well enough over the years: don't care. I told myself I'd slept with her only because it was a case of wanting what I couldn't have, and there was no reason to feel guilty about something we had both wanted at the time.

But I couldn't think of her without feeling a strange ache in my chest... And I couldn't stop fucking thinking about her. And just like that, I was right back where I started.

I sighed, rubbed at my face with both hands and tried to force my eyes to focus on the laptop screen before me. It was the only source of light in the otherwise darkened motel room; it was past sunset in Prague and I was on a one-man surveillance job that was almost certainly doomed to failure.

There are many things that FSB recruiters don't tell you before you sign up, such as how much of your life you will waste doing nothing more than watching and waiting. I've spent years doing so and they never mentioned the crushing boredom, the ache of muscles too long unmoving, the paranoia that you'll miss something if you so much as blink. Don't even think of a coffee or toilet break, of resting those tired eyes for a blissful second, because that is when something will happen.

I'd been recruited during my last year of university - approached in the library foyer and converted before we stepped out of the elevator on the second floor - and I couldn't find it in myself to regret it, or my subsequent decision to freelance as well. It was all-consuming, demanding everything I had, and I gloried in it even as I hated it; and that was precisely why I couldn't let myself think of Katya and-

And there I went again. I wasn't getting anywhere, either in forgetting her or in finding Bourne. My source in the Czech interior ministry had been adamant that a man with facial features a match for Bourne's had flown into Prague two days ago, but I was fucked if I knew what had happened to the bastard after he'd landed.

He had definitely checked in and been on the plane, but his passport had not been seen in Prague and I couldn't find his face on CCTV footage. It would not have been difficult to miss him on the footage, of course, but I'd had several people in the airport looking out for him - but they had seen nothing. I'd sent those same people after anybody who even slightly resembled Bourne with absolutely no success, and I was getting pretty damn sick of chasing my own tail. It had been the same story all along with us - he was always, somehow, just one step ahead.

Single-operative surveillance missions rarely work and I knew I was wasting my time. I had lost him somewhere in that airport and I would be lucky to find him again in the city - if he was even still here. I stared with glassy eyes at the screen of my laptop and acknowledged the unpalatable fact that I was no longer in Prague in search of Bourne. I was here because I didn't want to go back to Moscow.

: - : - :

My mobile phone awoke me to a dry mouth and the imprint of half a QWERTY keyboard on my cheek. The random buttons I had pressed after I'd fallen asleep on my laptop had shut down the surveillance program I'd been running and I resisted, with extreme difficulty, the urge to throw the fucking thing out the window. Such behaviour wouldn't help my cover but it might have made me feel better.

Waking up too soon from the state of unconsciousness that follows too many anti-sleeping pills is always painful. Imagine your worst hangover and double it; then double it again. That was the kind of painful fog I was trying to operate in when I picked up my phone and tried to focus my eyes on its screen. _Alexei_. The unreasoning rage of the over-tired reared up within me and was swallowed back with a superhuman effort.

'Yes?' I grunted, my voice rasping in my desert-dry throat.

'Kirill! Thank God! I've been trying to reach you for hours now, we need you back here, it's all gone wrong - Bourne's not really in Prague, it's just a ploy to get you out of Moscow, and Koretsky and Sergei are-'

I honestly would have shot him had we been in the same room.

'Alexei, please, _shut up_.'

There was an all-too-brief moment of silence as Alexei drew breath. God, my head hurt. And then he began babbling again.

'You'd better get back here, they're going to assassinate Gretkov and then Pekos will be-'

'Wait.' I shut my eyes and tried to think. 'Assassinate Gretkov?'

'Koretsky and Sergei, that's Katya's uncle-'

'I know who he is.'

'Right, him, well they're working together and they only need Gretkov's death to complete their plan. Then Sergei will sell what remains of Pekos to Koretsky - they've already divided everything else between themselves - and-'

'Stop,' I said.

And he did, to my surprise and utter relief. I kept my eyes closed as I tried to make my over-tired brain work through its pain. Something was wrong about all of this, something that I couldn't quite put my finger on...

'That doesn't make sense,' I muttered, resorting to thinking aloud. 'Even if Gretkov dies, Sergei won't be able to sell Pekos - he doesn't have a controlling share in the company. He owns about 15%, same as Katya, I think, but Gretkov's shares will pass to her upon his death, and then...'

I bit back a groan. I was too exhausted for this sort of critical analysis.

'Unless the will has been altered, leaving all to Sergei. Doesn't seem likely. Unless he marries her - no, he's family, he can't do that. Then... Then he has her killed. And then, as her only family, claims her stake in the company... Oh, fuck.'

Alexei's sharply withdrawn breath corresponded with a cold tidal wave of fear that swept down my spine and throughout my body. I had not felt such an acute sense of dread since the moment I realised that Bourne was about to make me the filling in a sandwich between his car and a concrete pillar. _Keep her safe_, I thought, to who or what I couldn't tell you - I had no faith, no religion, no belief in a higher being but I was hoping like hell that chance and timing were on Katya's side.

'Get back here,' Alexei said, and he sounded very young and scared. 'Please.'

'I'm on my way.'

I ended the call the instant the words left my mouth and then I was moving, dashing about the motel room in a frenzy of adrenaline-fueled activity. The place was wiped clean in just a few minutes. I had nothing to pack besides the laptop; I grabbed my bag and paused in the doorway to survey the room behind me. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips at the irony of the situation - here I was, the tantalising prospect of retribution snatched from beneath my nose, and all I cared about was getting back to Moscow as quickly as possible. So much for not caring, I thought, but if you're going to hell you may as well do it properly.

: - : - :

I needn't have worried, in the end. It was several hours before I arrived in Moscow, and I didn't bother with anti-surveillance techniques as I made my way to her apartment. What did it matter if I were followed? They already knew where she lived, and in any case I knew better than to trust my own judgement when I was this exhausted - I could easily miss a tail when I was having trouble remembering my own name.

It took too long but at last I was in the familiar elevator - and it was only then that I began to think about the reception that awaited me. I couldn't feel confident now that I was here and about to face Katya again. Every instinct I possessed was telling me to put myself by her side and stay there, but that didn't mean she was going to like it. She had never liked anything I had done, with perhaps the exception of when my lips had - no. Better stop that thought there.

I could see my own reflection in the highly polished surfaces of the elevator and I would have been self-conscious had I not been so damned worried about her safety. I had showered at the airport while awaiting my flight out and bought a change of clothes too - but it had been days since I last shaved and my face betrayed the bone-deep exhaustion that comes with sleep deprivation.

All of that, all of the stress and fatigue and frustration were forgotten when Alexei opened the door and I looked past his young blonde face to see _her_, she who I had told myself I would never again speak a word to. She was standing before the big glass windows in the lounge room with her back to me and her mobile phone held to her ear, dressed in tight black jeans and heeled boots to her knees and a white singlet that clung to the gentle curve of her waist.

Her long hair, the colour of pale honey, fanned down her back and swung as she moved. She was pacing up and down, talking animatedly in a low voice that I couldn't quite catch, oblivious to my presence, and so I had the opportunity to watch her unobserved.

I brushed past the younger man in the doorway and leant against the cream-coloured wall as she stalked back and forth. That face... I'd forgotten it, somehow, forgotten everything except those big doe-like eyes with the long lashes that had last been seen gazing up at me as her body moved beneath mine. There were the angular cheekbones, the beautiful profile of her nose and lips against the daylight filtering through the wooden Venetians, the autocratic set of her arched eyebrows that she didn't even realise she possessed...

And then the conversation was finished and she was putting the phone back in her pocket, turning to speak to Alexei, losing her sentence halfway through as she noticed me standing there. Very wide they went, those eyes, and her face went first white and then faintly pink. And then those features settled into an expression of haughty disdain, of faint mocking, of mild disgust, and I felt something inside me shrivel up and die as I realised there would be no smiles and heartfelt _I missed you_s at my return. And it had been stupid to even half-hope for such, I knew, but even though I had never articulated the wish in my thoughts I had still had it.

'Kirill,' she said, in icy acknowledgment.

But I looked into her eyes, past the frost-bitten voice and the aloof facade, and saw the spark that had kindled there. If only Alexei had not been there, and I could have crossed the room and crushed her body between mine and those big glass windows. Would she punch me or kiss me back? I wondered, and almost smiled; probably both. And the sex that followed would have been amazing - hands-around-throat, fingernails-drawing-blood kind of amazing.

And her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips twitched disdainfully, as if she knew what I was thinking and dared me to try it.

'Nice to see you again. But if you'll excuse me, I was just on my way out.'

And with that she breezed past me, so close, so _fucking_ close, and the smell of her nearly drove me insane. No, I tell a lie - it had driven me insane a long time ago. This woman just did not make sense, she fascinated me, I couldn't help but admire her even as I hated her.

She sailed out of her apartment without a backward glance and Alexei, his baby-blue eyes wide and his mouth agape, gave me one more startled look before disappearing after her. The door shut behind him and I could have applauded her for the exit she had just made - it had been masterly. _Bravo, Katya_.

I cast myself down on the couch, too tired to feel much at the anti-climax of our reunion, and allowed myself a smile. Katya had far too much class to yell and scream like a fish wife but I had the sneaking suspicion that she had seriously considered throwing that phone straight into my face - and probably anything else to hand as well.

I would be there when she returned and I would see her through this safely. And then, _then_, I would leave once and for all (as last time had meant to be) and put her forever behind me. These feelings would pass, as they had always done so before. I clung to that conviction as I gave in to unconsciousness.

: - : - :

For all of those waiting for Katya to throw a punch... Well... You won't have to wait much longer ;) I have no idea how it managed to become four months between updates... I'm sorry, I know I'm useless. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Especially those who reminded me of this story's existence. Thanks for reading :)


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